


Scientific Method

by vogon_poet



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Activist Hermione Granger, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, BAMF Tim Drake, Bigotry & Prejudice, Everyone from Gotham is lowkey scary, Gen, Jack and Janet Drake's A+ Parenting, Magical Theory, Slytherin Tim Drake, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake is Not Red Robin, Tim Drake is a Wizard, Tim Drake looks like a cinammon roll and is a cinammon roll, adding tags as I go, but will hurt you if you're racist, project free the house elves and eat the rich is a go baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 91,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25162711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogon_poet/pseuds/vogon_poet
Summary: It’s not like he’s surprised a magic school exists— that’s probably only a seven on the scale of “crazy things Tim Drake has seen”. No, Tim’s just surprised he’s enrolled.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Fred & George Weasley, Tim Drake & Hermione Granger, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Severus Snape
Comments: 1212
Kudos: 1599





	1. Introducing: The Best Damned Wizard There Ever Was

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the prompt by Otter_Boom: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3995764
> 
> Title taken from a poem by Paul Tran, which doesn't actually have anything to do with the story (unless...?) but I just think is pretty neat.

Here are the three most life changing things to happen to Tim Drake:

1) Figuring out Batman’s secret identity. (Which can be attributed solely to Tim’s visit to the circus; accurately therefore, this bullet point would be called “being hugged by Dick Grayson”)

2) Being sent to a boarding school in Britain, fresh at eleven years old. His parents came home unexpectedly early one night and found him returning, mud-streaked and covered in grime, from a night taking pictures in the city. They decided to send him abroad to a school famed for grooming obedient little fortune-inheritors.

3) Receiving his Hogwarts letter. Oh… so _that’s_ what that was, he realizes with a sort of detached shock, thinking of all the times he did something supposedly impossible.

  
Most people would be ecstatic to find out they’re actually wizards or witches, and they've been invited to a magical school. Tim was more irritated his carefully constructed plans for the future were being upturned. He wasn’t the only one.

His parents screamed the entire night. They’d just received the second great shock of their lives; the first had been when they’d realized their perfect heir was sneaking around Gotham at night like some plebian, the second was that their perfect heir required a magical education so as not to spontaneously combust, or something like that. The Professor that had come to explain had been supremely uncomfortable under Janet Drake’s icy gaze, and barely managed two stuttered sentences. 

Tim sat, huddled in a ball in the darkest corner of his room while his parents raged downstairs, wishing he could just melt into the shadows like Batman. 

They were debating whether it was too late to scrap this attempt at perfect heir and start again. Janet said she was not going to go through the pain of pregnancy again. Jack was arguing that adoption allowed for too many outside factors that might influence the child in ways they didn’t want. Both showed no hesitance bringing up Tim’s many failures.

Tim stroked the cover of the new Potions textbook he’d purchased in Diagon Alley that very day. He’d been in awe at the casual impossible feats, the strange fashion, the life and culture he was apparently also a part of. For a moment he’d thought: _I could belong here._

Tim wasn’t stupid. He knew his parents cared for him only as far as they had use for him. Growing up, he’d never wanted for anything— except love and proximity. He’d grown up knowing this, he’d internalized it until it became normal. It was a natural consequence to him that they were going to get rid of him, cut him off from their money, disown him. Deny him his name. But nothing else, because they’d never given him more than that.

It wasn’t like he was losing his home. He’d never had one (apart from Batman and Robin’s heels) in the first place.

He stroked the textbook. Maybe this was a stroke of luck, disguised as a curse. He could make the most of this. It threw his parent’s plans for him into upheaval, but his plans… getting a Master’s degree in Robotics and computer software. Using them to help Batman with his war on crime. Those were still on the table. Only now this table was infinitely wider, with infinitely more possibilities.

So, Tim decided. He was going to go to Hogwarts, he was going to stop caring how it disappointed his parents. And Batman was going to be impressed when Tim offered his help, because he was going to be the best damn wizard there ever was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like said before, this was inspired by a great prompt. I'll definitely be incorporating most of the ideas, but with my own take on the characters and the events at Hogwarts— 'cuz I'll be damned if I write a Tim Drake fic without Tim being best bros with Jason... that's definitely coming 
> 
> Please comment! I'd love to hear your thoughts ♡


	2. Above All; All Of The Above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim arrives at Hogwarts.

Tim studied obsessively during the summer, soaking up everything he could about the Wizarding World like a sponge. He tried out a few spells. It wasn’t hard. It was like computer code; give the command, let the program execute it. The real question was: who had programmed the system in the first place? And how could he change it? Because Tim’s favorite part about anything was dismantling it and then putting it back together, his own way. 

His parents mostly ignored him. That stung, but it was better than when they didn’t. When they didn’t, it was more than a sting, it was a kick in the ribs. Literally.

A day before the start of term, they packed up and left the country without a word. Tim took a taxi to King’s Cross alone.

#

Hogwarts was breathtaking. 

It wasn’t quite like the view over Gotham from the gargoyle on Fifth Avenue after a light rain at three am, though. Tim had the pictures to prove it.

He took the Great Hall in as he did everything else; a million thoughts a second. The floating candles

_(_ — how did they keep wax from dripping onto the students, was there some sort of invisible barrier hovering between them, or were the candles actually not even burning, maybe the light itself was just the product of a spell-…),

the many faces

(— too many people staring at him for comfort, but on the other hand, Hogwarts was the only official Wizarding school in Britain, meaning its students were basically 50% of the population; the Wizarding World really was tiny, Gotham’s inhabitant-count was higher than that of the entire magical British community-…),

the ceiling charmed to look like the sky outside

(—had they charmed it to be invisible, but no, then they’d be seeing the towers above them and probably a lot more bird shit, maybe they were projecting an image of the sky onto the ceiling in real time, but if that were possible, why was the Wizarding World still stuck in like, basically, the Middle Ages, using radios and whatnot, surely somewhat could’ve thought of the magical equivalent of television, not like it was hard to figure out without magic, maybe it was like a giant mirror spell, he’d read about those, that would certainly be fun to figure out how to do at home-…).

They were called up in alphabetical order to be Sorted. That seemed like a dumb concept to Tim, and not at all beneficial to school unity or whatever.

He told the Hat as much when it was his turn.

_Ha! You’re a sharper mind than most I get under here,_ it told him. _A Ravenclaw…?_

_I don’t really care,_ said Tim _, you can put me wherever. But tell me, are you actually a hat? Like, for real for real?_

_For real for real_ , confirmed the Hat, sounding amused. _That unbiased tolerance makes you a fine candidate for Hufflepuff, not to mention your sense of justice._

_Thanks. So, you’re a sentient object? That’s crazy. How are you sentient. You don’t have a brain!_

_I could take offense to that, you know._

_You demonstrate a sense of self-awareness! How?_

The Hat let him ponder this for several moments. _That’s crazy,_ he finally decided. It hummed in agreement.

_You’d make a good Ravenclaw. But… you’re not just innocently curious about me, are you?_

Abashed, Tim quickly tried to smother the thoughts about building an army of sentient robots.

Luckily, the Hat just seemed amused. _You don’t learn for the sake of learning. You learn because it’s a tool to achieve what you want, and you have very clear ideas on what you want, don’t you?_

_Yes_ , said Tim, whose desire to help the boy who had given him his first hug was the one thing he’d never felt uncertain about. Whether his parents really loved him, yeah. Whether he was worth anything apart from the legacy they’d planned for him, definitely. He’d spent anxious nights an indecisive wreck thinking about those things, and a thousand more. But wanting to help Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd, this conviction had never wavered. 

_You’re intelligent, Tim, you’re loyal and you’re brave and you’re kind. But above all, you’re ambitious._

Below the rim of the Hat, Tim bit his lips. 

_Don’t worry_ , the Hat says gently, _that’s who you are and that makes you even more remarkable, because you’re all those things at once, and you’ll use them all to become great. Never look down, Timothy. Better be… SLYTHERIN!”_


	3. You Never Really Stop Being A Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Different place, same game: Tim proves himself a stalker yet again.

Tim was aware of the magical community’s weird thing about blood. A different brand of racism than the Muggles’, but the same old thing in the end: stupid.

He wasn’t expecting to get much love in Slytherin. He’d never gotten much love _anywhere_ so he didn’t count it as much of a loss.

Still, he didn’t take things like his dorm mates trashing his four-poster and throwing his shit all over the room lying down. He’d have to gather evidence on them, he decided, to force them to back off. While he was at it, he might as well gather evidence on everyone and everything too. Just because he was no longer in Gotham didn’t mean he was no longer a crazy stalker at heart.

He was the only ‘mudblood’ in his Year and it was like a metaphorical kick-me sign on his forehead. The ponce, Draco Malfoy, especially liked feeding his superiority complex by pushing him around. But Tim didn’t think much of his attempts at intimidation (or anyone else’s, for that matter). He and Draco had grown up under roughly the same financial situations, but judging by Draco’s overall propensity at being a brat, his mother wasn’t anywhere _near_ as scary as Janet Drake.

Tim didn’t care one bit about the hierarchy and power plays of Slytherin house. What he did care about was the curriculum. In the first few lessons, he opted to stay silent and just observe, kind of get a feeling for how advanced the rest of his peers were and what was expected of them by their teachers.

He was astounded to find out he’d apparently grossly misjudged that during his summer reading.

The first few lessons focused mostly on how to hold a wand and on meditative exercises to help the kids focus their intent. The Purebloods in the classes, the most experienced, knew how to cast a _Lumos_ , maybe a Levitation Charm.

Tim could cast a _Lumos_ in his sleep. Wandlessly. (Gotham’s streets weren’t the best to be on when the lights went out. Or anytime. But more so when the lights went out, because that usually meant there was a supervillain messing with the electricity again. Whatever. Tim learned to make his own light out of necessity.)

There was maybe one person he thought could keep up with him, and that was a bushy haired muggleborn from Gryffindor. Her approach to lessons was the exact opposite of his: if you know something, make sure everyone _knows_ you know it. But she was cool and Tim had never had a friend before.

He approached her in the library one afternoon, a week into the term. Asked her about the book she was reading.

A first, she was suspicious of his House colors. Slytherins had an awful reputation, something to do with Dark wizards and bigots. He couldn’t blame her for being wary. But after a couple minutes discussing the apparent impracticality of Grump’s Second Law, she found a kindred spirit in another knowledge-hungry nerd, and the color of his robes lost importance.

Tim had a friend.

#

Once he decided to apply himself, Tim excelled at all of his classes. 

Professor Snape was an awful teacher, and poor Neville shit his pants anytime he loomed near, but again. Janet Drake? Ten times scarier. 

Tim was cool as a cucumber, even when Dean Thomas tried to sabotage his potion (he really had to get on with the blackmail gathering). Nettlebug quills were pretty corrosive, which was why they were added at the end of the potion to dissolve the last of the unevenly mixed ingredients, but Thomas had thrown them in way too early so they were now probably eating through the horned slugs, which had been originally used as a thickening agent. Now the potion would be too thin, and it would burn.

Tim turned the flames down (not completely, that would interrupt the billywig wing decomposition and probably mess something up— he wasn’t quite sure), and racked his mind… essence of daisyroot was an alkaline solution and it should counteract the nettlebug quills, right? He threw some in.

“ _What_ ,” Snape hissed, gliding up to him with narrowed eyes, “are you doing.”

Tim explained his thought process again, with a blank face and wide, innocent eyes. His potion seemed to still have an approximately correct color, so he dared say it worked.

“Adequately fast thinking,” Snape confirmed, then whirled around to bark at Thomas, “Twenty points from Gryffindor for trying to sabotage a fellow student’s work!”

_Potions_ , Tim thought, rather satisfied with himself, _was pretty cool._

All in all, he enjoyed his classes and did well in them, with the exception of Transfiguration, which he just couldn’t wrap his head around. Where did the mass go? Toothpick to needle was tricky, but kind of imaginable, if he just thought of wood molecules turning into steel molecules (vaguely— the very nitty gritty chemical side was beyond him and he didn’t think his Professor meant for him to think about it like that), but desk to pig like Professor McGonagall had shown them in their first lesson was blatantly _wrong_. Eventually his inability to come to terms with the concept of broken laws of physics bit him in the ass, and Hermione was granted at least one subject she was better at than him.

What really bugged Tim though, was that of all these fascinating subjects, none of his favorites were being taught. Math and informatics. 

Arithmancy, he was told, was taught only starting in Third Year. And wizards had no equivalent to computers. _Honestly_ , Tim thought, _Purebloods are stupid for thinking they're superior to Muggles when they don’t even have computers._

The closest they came to programing was Spell Creation (there was a workshop offered in Seventh Year— _Seventh Year!_ ) and Runes. 

Since, obviously, something had gone very wrong in the curriculum planning, Tim took these matters into his own hands. Runes quickly became his favorite subject. The Professor, Bathsheda Babbling, was impressed when he tracked her down to ask questions and allowed him to sit in on several of her lessons.

Hermione, not to be outdone, quickly joined him.

At the same time, Tim started working on Project Blackmail Acquirement. Technology didn’t work within Hogwarts, or any place very saturated with magic, according to _A Muggleborn’s Introduction to the Wizarding World_. So, Tim built his own listening bugs.

They were little metal chips with Notice-Me-Not charms on top and the runic sequence for listening overlaid with that of repetition. It was hard to figure out a way to get the two to interact properly, and then how to make the one only activate when the other was deactivated—i.e. recording and then playing back.

In the end the system worked by channeling magic only into the ‘listening’ and ‘remembering’ runes. Only once the supply of magic had been used up, could he activate the ‘repetition’ ones. Meaning he couldn’t arbitrarily decide when to stop recording. It was an imperfection he hoped to figure out how to solve, but until then, Tim hid his bugs all over the dorm room. He channeled enough magic to last for three days. Maybe he’d get to hear someone sleep talking about sensitive information. Who knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “My mom is scarier than you” is a valid argument (not)


	4. Tim Dabbles In Petty Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim unleashes his inner Gothamite.

Tim bought himself a beautiful barn owl he named Amber. He sent his parents a letter telling them of his Sorting and the progress he was making in his classes. Surely they would be happy to hear he was still number one at school, even if it was magic school.

He received a letter back saying they were looking into surrogacy options.

It would kind of be a dick move to disinherit him now. They were more likely to do it in a few years, when they could spin some story about recklessness and ill-suitability to inherit. Still, he needed to build up a nice little savings account he could fall back on if worst came to worst.

_The First Year Favor Service_ , he decided, would be his new side hustle. He could do homework, smuggle in Zonko’s Joke Shop products (he had trailed Fred and George for several days and was not disappointed by his subsequent discoveries) or tutor fellow students.

He hung a couple posters in the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff common rooms, suspecting them to be the most likely to take use of his services. And a couple weeks later, he got his first client.

“You?” sneered Zacharias Smith. “This was _your_ idea?”

He was looking at Tim’s green robes like they were crawling with ants.

“Yes,” Tim replied calmly, “the First Year Favor Service was my idea. I can do anything you need— within reason, of course— for a price.”

Zacharias frowned at him, unconvinced. “I was going to ask you to do my Charms essay for me, since it says ‘homework help’ on the poster… but you’re a muggleborn. No offence,” he added in a way that definitely implied offence.

“I’m the top of our class. I assure you that writing a Charms essay won’t be a problem.”

“Muggleborns all think they know stuff,” Zacharias told him seriously, “but they’re usually still pretty ignorant to how stuff works. No offence. That’s just how it is.”

_Ignorant? Wow. Pretty bold of him to attempt using a three-syllable word._

“Anyways,” the boy continued with Malfoy’s condescending air but none of his grace, “I think saying you can do ‘anything’ for a price is dishonest. I know Slytherin’s tend to be that way, but it’s kind of embarrassing. For you.”

This kid was starting to really get on Tim’s nerves. “Really? Why?”

“Well, you _can’t_ do anything, so you shouldn’t say you can, or someone’s gonna call you out on it.”

“Feel free,” Tim replied coldly. “My service can offer you—”

“How about the paperweight in McGonagall’s classroom, huh? Can you get me that? She only takes it out after class when she’s grading papers. If you can do anything, why don’t you sneak past her nose and get it.”

“You mean _steal_ it,” Tim said blankly. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No, but you’re obviously a liar,” Zacharias said smugly. “Muggleborns need to learn how things work here. We don’t go around shamelessly exaggerating and making things up like the Muggles do. If you can’t do any—”

“I can do it,” Tim cut him off, seething. “For 50 Galleons and a secrecy vow.”

Zacharias looked surprised. Then he smirked. “Sure. If you’re looking to be expelled, go right ahead.”

_God_ , Tim thought. _I thought I was better than this. Letting myself be goaded into bad decisions. Mother would be so disappointed._

Well, Mother’s not here. And Tim had a paperweight to steal.

#

_Obviously_ Tim was not going to steal it himself. He was not going to go anywhere near Professor McGonagall’s classroom outside of actual class.

The first thing that came to mind was a robot, which was of course tricky because again, _no tech at Hogwarts._

He could make a different object that did exactly what a robot did with the help of runes: beep boop its way to McGonagall’s classroom, take the paperweight, beep boop back out. The most convenient would be to make it remote controlled, but Tim just couldn’t figure that one out, so it went on the list of _Problems to Solve in the Future_.

He’d have to do it the inefficient way; program the “robot” to take a route he’d have to manually describe beforehand. As in “drive forward three meters, turn right, drive forward five meters etc. etc.” That was awful programming technique and he hated it, but he had to start somewhere.

Getting the robot, which was just a wooden plank with wheels attached, to drive, stop and turn was the first step. Finding the right runes and then how to layer them together so that Tim could give multiple “commands” and have them be executed in sequence, was especially tricky. Especially tricky as in; ending in multiple (minor) explosions and burnt fingers.

He caught Snape regarding his bandage-wrapped fingers suspiciously. Tim gave him no reason to complain though, brewing potions of his usual high quality, so Snape ignored him. It seemed his regular course of action when the Slytherin mudblood was involved. Tim got the feeling Snape did not actually have a distaste for him due to his blood, but, as Head of Slytherin House, was not about to stop anyone else from having one. 

Finally figuring the right rune sequence out, Tim had to map the path the robot should take. Never conspicuously near Professor McGonagall’s classroom, he tried to measure the hallways. He logged his results and let his little robot do a test run. It was supposed to get from the Gryffindor Common Room (Hermione had insisted on being part of the project, but, to spare her the aneurism, he hadn’t told her what it was for) to the portrait of a portly old wizard in purple robes on the same floor.

He found it bumping uselessly against a wall somewhere halfway. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Tim frowned. “It shouldn’t even have come down this corridor.”

“Maybe you got the length of one of the corridors wrong,” suggested Hermione.

They measured again.

All of their previous measurements were wrong.

“That can’t be!” exclaimed Tim, stuck somewhere between frustration and fascination. They redid their other measurements and found that these, too, were incorrect.

“It can’t be a coincidence. It’s impossible we measured _every single hallway_ wrong last time.”

With a dawning suspicion, he suggested they remeasure the hallways the next day. When they did so, the values were yet again different.

“So, the Hogwarts’ corridors are either messing with us out of spite or they really do change every day,” Tim concluded. He used his protractor to measure the angles of the walls and the corners.

“Well?” Hermione asked excitedly when he let the protractor sink with an irritated expression. She was much more thrilled about a potential mystery to solve than Tim. Tim just wanted this damn thing to _work_.

“The walls are 180°. That’s fine. But the corners are all at different angles… that just doesn’t make—” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m so tired of magic, Hermione. You _cannot_ believe how tired I am.”

Regardless, he spent a couple days measuring angles and hallways, curious despite himself. On one such occasion, kneeling with his protractor to a wall, he was discovered by Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and the inbred idiots, Crabbe and Goyle.

“Well, look at that,” Malfoy drawled. “The Slytherin mudblood, mucking about on the ground. Have you finally realized where you belong is at everyone’s feet?”

Tim scowled. He doubted Malfoy could even understand the concept of an angle, so there was no use explaining.

“I’m sure you have better things to do than watch me work, Malfoy,” he said with a poker face. It was probably untrue. All Malfoy did was look for trouble.

“Why, if we’re having so much fun?” asked Nott mockingly. He eyed Tim’s bag, resting on the ground at his feet. “Crabbe, Goyle, look at that.”

“Oh yes, awfully careless of you,” smirked Malfoy. “Leaving your bag where anyone could just… trip over it.”

Crabbe and Goyle, glad to have been given some direction other than standing around and looking dumb, gleefully proceeded to kick it. Notebooks fell out. An ink bottle smashed, leaving black bleeding all over the floor. A bit of ink stained the knee of Tim’s expensive gray pants. He watched it slowly spreading with a blank face.

He lifted his gaze to meet Malfoy’s. “And you’re awfully clumsy for a Pureblood,” he said neutrally, watching pink bloom across the boy’s cheeks.

“I don’t care about the useless drivel of a _mudblood_ ,” hissed Malfoy.

“You’re a disgrace to the Slytherin House,” Nott added, as the group stalked (or in certain cases; lumbered) away.

Tim vanished the spilled ink and fixed the broken bottles with a _Reparo_. His notebooks were sadly quite trampled, but he’d recently come across a spell for copying words from one book to another in the library, so that too, was fixable.

The one thing that wasn’t so trivial was Malfoy’s bullying. Malfoy’s, and the rest of Slytherin House. And some of Gryffindor too, because those liked to pick on anyone wearing green.

_Project Steal Paperweight will have to be put on the backburner_ , Tim decided grimly. His 50 Galleons could wait, it was time he focused on, or rather; _acted_ on; Project Blackmail Acquirement. 

Crabbe and Goyle were sort of too dumb to collect sordid secrets on. The only thing remotely sordid about them (apart from how they liked to push other students around, which wouldn’t get them in trouble anyways) was the stash of Honeyduke’s they stole from Ravenclaw Third Years. They were so bad about keeping that secret, Tim didn’t need a bug to find out about it. 

He could sic Filch on them, but it seemed kind of underwhelming. The ones he’d really get an effect out of blackmailing were Malfoy and Nott, the two most powerful in their Year. “Power” being family names and influence, as Tim, smallest in his Year, could put those two on their asses, with or without using magic. There was something to be said about growing up in Gotham.

He’d been casually monitoring his bugs every couple of days. He was pretty sure Nott was being abused at home, judging by his nightmare-induced whimpers and pleas to “stop, Father” at night. That wasn’t the kind of stuff Tim wanted to exploit, so he turned to Malfoy.

The strange thing about Malfoy was that, whenever it seemed he was alone in the dormitory for an extended amount of time (Tim kept track of each of his dormmate’s schedules and their presence in the dormitory), he unlatched his trunk. Tim knew the sound the first latch made; it was a simple lock and key. When he was alone, however, Malfoy also unlatched a second one. There was the sound of him running his hands across the wooden trunk walls, and then a faint click; a hidden compartment.

Anything in a hidden compartment was worth breaking into.

He taped a cloth to the underside of a desk in the Charm’s classroom. After a couple of days, he extracted it again, satisfied to find it saturated with magic. Every student that had practiced their wandwork in the classroom had left a faint residue of their magic on the cloth.

Once alone in the dormitory, he covered his hands with the cloth and picked the lock to Malfoy’s trunk. It was charmed to perceive foreign magical signatures and subsequently activate defense mechanisms if the lock was touched. However, Tim’s magical signature was so smothered with others courtesy of the cloth, the charms could not pick out a singular one. The programming had not taken into account over twenty people simultaneously trying to unlock the trunk, and as Tim’s signature, by virtue of him using the Muggle— or rather, the _Gothamite_ way of breaking and entering, didn’t stand out, no defense mechanisms were activated.

The trunk popped open. Tim guessed the hidden compartment was opened through Malfoy’s magical signature, like a fingerprint. A _Finite_ uncovered the small runes carved into the corner of the wooden paneling. In his mind, he thought of them as the “code” behind the trunk’s security. Reading the runes— the code— revealed he’d been right about the way to unlock the compartment.

With his pocketknife, he carefully scraped away the runes that made the trunk open only to Malfoy’s magical signature. The wooden panel clicked open under a light push.

Inside… were books. Dark books. _Schneider’s Compendium of Dark Curses. An Introduction to the Darke Arts. Rituals, Sacrifices and Blood Magick_. An old leather book lined in gold, which Tim was pretty sure was the Malfoy Family Grimoire. That would be very interesting to open, but it was probably covered in protections that would eat him alive if he touched it. There was also another wand in there, which most likely didn’t have the Trace on it. Tim’s fingers itched, but he knew if he took it, it’d be too easy to track back to him.

Sighing he closed the compartment and scratched the proper runes back onto the wood. He covered them in a glamor, as they had been before, and closed the trunk.

Blackmail material: acquired. Now how to use it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Tim brought a protractor to magic school. No, he does not think that's in any way weird.
> 
> To be honest, I'm a little torn over what Tim's reaction to finding out one of his classmates is being abused would be. Like obviously, he wouldn't take advantage of that to follow his agenda. And he would try to help. But the situation is muddled somewhat by the fact that the classmate in question literally views him as subhuman and would not take kindly to any attempts at help + Tim's foreign environment and limited influence
> 
> So... uh. Definitely not dropping this, but I think it's gonna have to wait until Tim unlocks his Justice™ phase and starts getting involved in all his classmate's business, not just his own. 
> 
> Do feel free to give your own take on what he would/should do though. I'd love to hear what you think. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. Confrontations And Commendations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim “My Mom Is Scarier Than You” Drake strikes again.

  
He cornered Malfoy and Nott along with Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode and the henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle, in the empty classroom they frequented every Tuesday. They practiced their spells there, like a sort of study group, except they were all too proud to call it a study group, so they just acted like it was an exclusive after-school club.

The moment he entered, they had their wands pointed at him (with a couple exceptions, who first stared dumbly and then struggled to find their discarded wands amongst piles of candy). That was very cute, especially how they snarled and barked, but a Gothamite would have been on their feet the moment they heard footsteps, and had a knife shoved under his throat as soon as he’d opened the door.

“Sit back down,” he told Malfoy and Nott. “I need a word with you.”

“You don’t have a right to demand things from us,” Nott sneered.

“Aw, is ickle Timmy sad he didn’t get invited?” jeered Pansy Parkinson cruelly.

Tim levelled her with an unimpressed look. “I don’t need extra after school tutoring. And I won’t distract you by succeeding so much quicker than you, like in our lessons. I’m doing you a favor by not coming. God knows you need all the help you can get.”

She turned red and screeched, “Draco, this mudblood needs a reminder of his place!” 

Malfoy looked happy to comply, but before he could utter a word, Tim was snapping his wand through a well practiced movement. In a second, Malfoy had been disarmed. The boy gave a shocked shout as his wand spun through the air and into Tim’s waiting hand.

Tim gave him a severe look. “I just want to talk. To you and Nott. The rest can leave.”

“Give me my wand back,” hissed Malfoy.

Tim threw it back to him without hesitation. Surprised, the blond boy fumbled to catch it.

“When my father hears—” he began.

“Five minutes alone with you and Nott.”

“Let’s do it,” Nott told him. “He’s just a dumb mudblood. We can humor him.”

They thought the fact that he was outnumbered put him at a disadvantage. They were convinced of his harmlessness. That was nice, since it neatly provided him with their underestimation on top of everything else about them he could exploit. They were making it too easy, almost.

Parkinson _harrumphed_. “I want a turn with him.”

“You’ll get it when we’re done,” promised Malfoy.

Seemingly appeased, the rest of the group filed out of the room. Tim watched them leave tensely. The moment the door shut, Nott was coming toward him, wand in hand, but Tim barked “Sit down!” in his best Janet Drake voice. Surprised, Nott froze.

“I said I wanted to talk,” said Tim, more levelly now. “So listen carefully, please.”

“Don’t give us orders, mud—” Malfoy began, but Tim cut him off with a Look.

“Schneider’s Compendium of Dark Curses. An Introduction to the Darke Arts. Rituals, Sacrifices and Blood Magick. Sound familiar?”

Malfoy’s smug look died on his face. “W-What…?”

“I’m pretty sure those books were all made illegal sometime around 1950. I mean, I am just a mudblood, so I can’t be sure,” Tim said, widening his eyes in a picture-perfect look of innocence. “I might need to ask a qualified authority, like, let’s say, Professor Dumbledore, to confirm. ‘Is it illegal for my dormmate, Draco Malfoy, to be in possession of these very dark books, Mr. Dumbledore, sir?’”

Both Malfoy and Nott winced.

“I imagine he’d say, ‘Yes, that’s very illegal. We might need to do an investigation as to where he got ahold of such illegal books.’ And I’d say, ‘Maybe start with my other dormmate, Theodore Nott, since he and Malfoy have been exchanging books since beginning of term. Oh, and not just books. They’ve also been exchanging—’”

“All right, we get it!” snapped Nott, face pale.

“How did you find out about those books,” Malfoy asked shakily. His gaze was fixed on the opposite wall, eyes aghast. He looked like he wanted to cry.

Tim considered him a moment. Malfoy was always so quick to mention his father, practically obsessed with the man. It made sense he might be deathly afraid of disappointing him, or doing anything that might get the man into hot water. Knowing the nature of Slytherins, the problem here was probably less the books and more that he’d been caught.

Sighing, Tim hopped up onto one of the desks. “You guys seem to forget that, muggleborn or not, I was sorted into Slytherin too. For a reason. So how about you stop questioning the validity of my Sorting every time you see me, yeah? Stop talking trash about me where I can hear you, and— just a warning.” He gave them foreboding looks. “I hear more than you think.”

He hopped down from the desk. “Good day,” he chirped and made for the door. That ought to keep them in check, and if it didn’t, the bug he’d slipped into Malloy’s robe pocket— a candy wrapper with runes written on it in homemade invisible ink— ought to offer him something that would.

#

This didn’t take care of the entire bullying problem, but with the two main instigators out of the way, Tim could sleep a little easier.

It wasn’t his last confrontation with bullies though. Tim had suspected he might not be the only one having trouble with their House-mates. Hermione, teary eyed, cornering him in the library and asking if she really was a bossy know-it-all, confirmed that.

“Who told you that?” he frowned at the sniffling girl, who was avidly trying to wipe her tears away with the back of her sleeve.

“That’s not the p-point,” she insisted. “Just… just tell me the truth. Am I really insufferable?”

“Of course not, Hermione!” He sprang to his feet, unsure of what to do with himself. Was this a situation that required hugs? Should he… should he hug her?

Tim awkwardly raised his hands. He dropped them again. Tim had no idea how to give a hug.

“You’re amazing, Hermione! The smartest witch in our Year,” he settled on insisting. If there was one thing he _could_ do, it was iterate data, and as far as Tim was concerned, these were _straight facts_.

“Everyone else is just intimidated by how smart you are. There’s direct correlation between feelings of inferiority and overcompensation by trying to put others down. I can-… I can show you graphs if you like?”

Because she didn’t look quite convinced, he quickly continued. “And you’re so smart, Hermione, being called a know-it-all is just people trying to make you feel bad about knowing more than _them_ — you should _own_ that, and if it makes them call you bossy, so _what_. It doesn’t matter when ye’ out ’er bein’ a thousan’ times more successful than ’em—”

Hermione was staring at him, wide eyed. “What… happened to you _voice_?”

Tim froze, then turned bright red, realizing that in his fervor his Gotham accent had slipped out. “Oh… um.” He cringed. His mother would have slapped him for disgracing himself and his status as heir (not anymore) of one of the richest families in Gotham. The Gotham accent, picked up from hours upon hours spent in the city’s underbelly (he ached for the clamoring reverberation of the city— anything was better than the silent, silent house with its silent, silent walls and silent doors and rooms and silent _everything so oppressively still_ —) stayed neatly packed up and tucked away whenever in any sort of company. 

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

“No, um…” she swallowed. “No, it’s fine. I was just… surprised. Where are you from?”

“Gotham,” he admitted.

She did a spit-take. “Wait— _seriously_? I mean, I knew you were American, the accent makes it obvious, but _Gotham_?”

“Uh… yeah.”

She paused, digesting. “Okay. Wow. Um, wow.”

“What?” Tim asked, seriously confused. It wasn’t like he’d said Atlantis. Although that apparently existed too.

“No, it’s just…” She laughed, embarrassed. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t expect to… well, you know how they talk about Gotham.”

“Metropolis does have a lot to say about us but our football team really _is_ better—”

“No! I meant— jeez, you’re so… so _normal_ and… nonchalant about this, everyone always says Gotham is like, ‘Number One Place To Never Visit Because You Will End Up Being Taken Hostage By A Supervillain’ or something…” she gives a watery laugh. “Okay, don’t take it personally. This was not how I though this conversation would go.”

She did seem better. Less on the verge of tears. Tim wanted to know who got such ideas in her head, but he stayed silent for the moment, letting his friend compose herself.

“It’s not true, you know,” she said after a minute.

“What’s not true?”

“That I’m the smartest. I mean, smartest _witch_ in our Year, yeah, but I don’t really care about being just the smartest _witch_ , I-… I’m not the. _The_. Smartest. You know.”

He stared at her, puzzled.

“ _You_ are, Tim. I’m not the smartest. I’m. I _used_ to be the smartest, I was always the smartest—” She started crying again and Tim panicked.

_Oh no, oh no, she’s started again, what did I do? What do I—_

“Back in primary, it was always _me_ , and now you’re the top of our class and I just— I’m doing my best, but I’m _still_ not good enough— I—” she sobbed.

“Hermione, what are you talking about, I mean, I am the top of the Year, but that doesn’t mean I’m the best or, or, that you’re worse, or, no, why are you crying?! Hermione, I’m literally pants at Transfiguration and we’re always competing for the top spot in Charms, you get better essay grades like, like half the time— Hermione stop crying…”

She didn’t stop.

“Hermione, we’re going to get kicked out of the library!”

She stopped.

Suddenly agitated for a different reason, she looked around frantically to see if Madam Pince was lurking somewhere between the shelves.

“Sorry, Tim,” she whispered finally in a brittle voice. “I’m not… I’m not _angry_ or anything that you’re,” she took a deep breath, “better than me.”

“I’m not. I just have a more instinctual grasp on Potions and can memorize dates faster. That’s it. But…” he considered her for a moment. “You know you shouldn’t be measuring your worth by comparing yourself to others. Right?”

She flinched. “O-Of course I do—”

“Because being the best at everything is not what defines you. You know that, right?”

“I know that!” she snapped. Then, softer, “I just have to keep remembering.”

“Will you tell me who told you the stuff about being bossy? ‘Cuz that’s not true and they shouldn’t keep saying it.”

“Oh no,” she laughed, uncomfortable. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not— it’s no one.”

“ _Someone_ must have said it.”

“Not to my _face_. I just… hear them talking sometimes. It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have let it get to me. I was just, you know, feeling bad about the other stuff. And anyways,” she gave him a sharp look. “You shouldn’t go looking for trouble. You can’t get commendations on your report card if you don’t keep your record clean.”

“I’m not planning on getting my record dirty or anything—”

She sighed, but it seemed… Tim froze. What was that on her face. Did she seem… fond? Of _what_? Why was she feeling feelings of fondness?

“You know, when you started offering the graphs, I was like, ‘wow, he really is bollocks at the reassuring people thing’. Because even I wouldn’t offer a graph to somebody crying, you know?”

“Uh…” 

Tim could _understand_ that, but he couldn’t understand why she was still looking fond. It was throwing him off.

“But you’re a really great friend, Tim. I don’t think I’ve ever had pep-talk that chaotic.” She smiled at him. Tim did not compute. “I _would_ like a hug now, though.”

And because Hermione knew him by now and knew his brain was probably flashing an error message at the moment, she reached out and hugged _him_.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

“Thank you, Tim,” she said.

“I… thank _you_.” He quickly shut his mouth before he said something like ‘this is my second hug’ or ‘can you please not let go’ or something equally embarrassing. 

He did resolve to keep a closer eye on Hermione’s Gryffindor Year-mates though. He wouldn’t let people make his friend feel bad about herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted Tim to tell Hermione “slay trick or you get e-lim-i-nated” but then I didn't do it;; tragic.
> 
> Also, HOW TF DO YOU WRITE AN ACCENT hurgfhfh
> 
> Tim is touch-starved but that's why, in this fic, he will be getting All The Hugs. Tim Drake deserves the world, you can fight me (please don't). 1 kudos = 1 hug for Tim


	6. Dungeons And Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a troll in the dungeons... is there a mole in the school? AKA whether Scarecrow poisoning the water supply or a literal troll attack, something will always go wrong on Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several lines taken directly from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Neither DC nor the Harry Potter franchise belong to me.

They were in Charms, working on making feathers levitate. Hermione was paired with Ronald Weasley, which neither was too happy about.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ” Ronald shouted, waving his arms like a windmill. 

“You’re saying it wrong,” Hermione told him. She had been waiting for him to get a hang of it for the last ten minutes and was getting impatient. She was trying not to snap, but she was already so irritated with Ronald and Harry for being so reckless and breaking the rules and— well, she could go on and on, so it probably did come out like a snap. “It’s Wing- _gar_ -dium Levi- _o_ -sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and long.”

“You do it then, if you’re so clever,” Ron snarled.

Hermione had practiced the spell already with Tim. She was trying to not be so pushy and eager for acknowledgement anymore (it’s okay not be the best), so she’d let Ron go first. Now she rolled her sleeves up, flicked her wand, and said, “ _Wingardium Leviosa!”_

Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about five feet above their heads.

Ronald soured as Professor Flitwick came over to praise her. He was in an awful mood for the rest of the lesson. 

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her but slimy Slytherins,” he told Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded corridor at the end of class, “she’s a nightmare, honestly.”

Hermione pushed past them, biting her lip to keep from crying.

“She must’ve noticed she’s got no real friends,” she heard Ron saying as she rushed away.

She came to a stop in an empty corridor, back pressed to the wall and holding back tears. _It’s not true. It’s not true._

She _wasn’t_ a nightmare, and Tim _wasn’t_ a slimy Slytherin, he was her best friend. It was ridiculous to be crying about something like this. If Tim were here, he’d have the graphs to prove it. 

It didn’t matter that nobody in her House liked her, that Ron called her a nightmare, that all the girls in her dorm whispered and giggled behind her back about the insufferable brainiac that would get married to her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ because no one else could stand her. It didn’t matter. Tim was an even bigger brainiac than she was, and _he_ never let anyone walk over him for it.

She took a deep breath. _So own it_. Thinking of Tim trying to cheer her up did just that; cheer her up. 

She didn’t much feel like going back to the dorm, where the rest of the girls would be getting ready for the Halloween Feast, simpering and doing their makeup and making pointed comments. Neither did she really feel like going to the Halloween Feast itself. Spending more time with her immature classmates struck her as exceedingly tedious. She’d rather practice her spells in the Library. 

Just too bad Tim wouldn’t be joining her. He’d said his House-mates got kind of weird about Halloween, since it was a Muggle holiday and also the anniversary of You-Know-Who’s downfall. He said he’d be best off staying in the most public places as possible— so, attending the Halloween feast. He’d also been really jumpy in the days approaching the 31st. Apparently, some man who called himself the ‘Scarecrow’ launched a chemical attack every Halloween in Gotham (that was then foiled by some dude in a bat-suit— “Wait, I thought that was an urban myth—?”). “It’s just not a good day,” he said.

Gothamites were really weird.

#

Madam Pince kicked her out and closed the Library once the feast started. 

Lost in thought, Hermione wandered the corridors, thinking about how she and Tim had found out about them changing daily. She was pondering magical architecture and whether a building could be sentient, when an awful stench reached her nose.

She nearly gagged. What the hell was that? There was the noise of lumbering footsteps, and a scraping noise. As if something large were being dragged across the ground.

Then the troll came around the corner. Hermione screamed.

#

“I’ve just thought— Hermione.”

“What about her?”

“She doesn’t know about the troll.”

Ron bit his lip.

“Oh, all right,” he snapped. “But Percy’d better not see us.”

#

Tim was following the rest of the Slytherins heading back to the dormitory. 

“If the troll is _in the dungeon_ ,” Malfoy was hissing, “why are _we going to the dungeons too?!”_

_Surprisingly sensible_ , thought Tim, who had been on edge the entire day. _Halloween is just a cursed day. Doesn’t matter where you are._

Suddenly, an ear-splitting shriek echoed throughout the corridors. The Slytherins froze.

“Did somebody get—” one of them muttered.

“Come on, hurry up,” the Prefect snapped, trying to get them moving again. “We have to get to the dormitories.”

Tim, however, was rooted in place. _That sounded like—_

He began running.

#

Harry and Ron stumbled upon Hermione, still paralyzed in fear, at the same time Tim came flying down the corridor from the other side. 

The troll faced the three children. Twelve feet tall, skin a dull, granite gray. Its great lumpy body was like a boulder with a small bald head perched on top like a coconut. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.

“Move, move, move!” Harry shouted, wrenching Hermione’s arm roughly.

“Oh my god,” said Ron, because the stink coming off the thing was incredible.

The troll raised its club with a wordless roar.

“Oh _hshit_ —” Ron exclaimed. He stumbled backwards, knocking into the two behind him.

Tim sprang forward and clambered up the troll’s huge, trunk-like body. It was like climbing fire escapes in Gotham, except this fire escape wobbled and roared and stunk. The troll didn’t seem to even notice him scrabbling across its back. 

_Thick, tough skin. Won’t be able to pierce it with my knife. Don’t know any spells strong enough._

_Think Robin vs. Killer Croc. Go for the eyes._

He was now hanging off its shoulders. He reached into his boot and pulled out his pocketknife. Hermione, seeing him on top of the troll, had started screaming again.

“Run!” he shouted at her and the boys. They seemed stuck watching him in horror. “I’ll distract it!” He stabbed the troll in the eye.

It bellowed, dropping the club. With a violent jerk, it dislodged him. Tim went flying against the wall. His head knocked against the stone and his vision went blurry.

Harry and Ron were shouting something at each other. Ron gripped his and in trembling fingers. “ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ” he screamed.

The club, laying on the ground, rose into the air, turned slowly over— and dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its owner’s head. The troll swayed on the spot, then fell flat on its face, with a thud that made the whole corridor tremble.

A moment later, Professor McGonagall had come rushing up to them, closely followed by Snape and Quirrell. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sunk against the wall.

“What on earth is going on here?” Professor McGonagall thundered. Her voice shook in cold fury. Tim, being helped to his feet by Hermione, had never seen her looking angrier.

Professor Snape’s eyes flashed over the scene, landing on him. “Why aren’t you in your dormitory?” he asked with a piercing look. There was blood staining Tim’s hands. It was blue and, for lack of better word, _gunky_. 

_Troll blood is used in the Muscle Enhancement Potion_ , Tim thought absently. _I wonder if it can still be used once dry. Actually, no. I don’t care. I just want it off._

“Yes, that’s what I’d like to know,” Professor McGonagall agreed. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed! What on earth were you thinking of?”

“Please, Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said in a small voice. “They were looking for me.”

“Miss Granger!”

Tim was trying to blink the spots from his vision, but he turned to stare at his friend, unsure where she was going with this.

“I went looking for the troll because I— I thought I could deal with it all on my own— you know, because I’ve read all about them.”

Ron dropped his wand in shock.

“If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead by now. Harry got me out of its range and Ron knocked it out with its own club. And Tim… he… he stabbed it. In the eye. It would have finished me off before they arrived.”

“Is this true?” Snape asked Tim lowly. “You went looking for Miss Granger after she tried to hunt down a troll?”

“I heard a scream,” Tim said quietly.

The other boys were speechless. Professor McGonagall seemed to be floundering. Then she said, “Miss Granger, I’m very disappointed in you. Five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this. If you’re not hurt, you better go back to the dormitory.”

“I’m not hurt, Professor, but Tim, he got thrown into the wall, please, he needs medical attention—”

“I’m fine,” Tim tried to protest, but McGonagall was insistent and Snape glared at him before he could squirm his way out.

Passing the troll’s prone body (and trying not to breathe in as he did so) his gaze fell on Quirrell, still looking shaken. Their eyes met.

“You wrote your dissertation for a Defense Mastery on trolls,” Tim stated. His thoughts were still stumbling through his head in loops and spirals.

There was something wrong with Quirrell’s eyes. “I did,” the man replied. He looked curious beneath the sweaty pallor. “Did you read it?”

Tim didn’t reply. He had suddenly gotten a very _wrong_ feeling, like he was in the crosshairs of a rifle. He saw himself reflected back in Quirrell’s eyes, small and fragile, painted red as if the laser dot of a firearm were trained on his forehead.

Tim stiffened. He averted his eyes. “I’ll go, I’ll go,” he told Hermione, who was still fussing over him. She accompanied him to the Hospital Wing and cried over him a bit more.

She was finally banished by the matron, who gave Tim several Potions to ease the aching of his head. “You’ll be right as rain in the morning,” she told him, “but you better take it easy, young man, you hear me?”

Tim was dozing off in a fitful sleep when Professor Snape entered the Hospital Wing. Immediately, he was upright. “Professor—” he began.

Snape cut him off by tossing his pocketknife onto his bed. Tim ejected the blade, revealing it had been cleaned of blood. “… thank you.”

“That was extremely imprudent of you,” Snape said.

Tim sunk into himself. “Hermione’s my friend, sir. When I heard her scream, I couldn’t _not_ help.”

“You’re lucky to be _alive_ ,” the Professor hissed. “And if anything had gone other than it did, we would have had _two_ dead children on our hands.”

Tim didn’t know if he was deliberately not counting Ron and Harry, but he didn’t ask. “I know, I know it was reckless—” _rash, thoughtless, stupid, Timothy_ — “but through dangerous negligence on behalf of the staff,” here he looked back up at the Professor, “children were put in mortal peril. I think the more pressing concern here, rather than how thin the skin of our teeth by which we escaped was, is how the troll could get into the castle in the first place.”

Snape scrutinized him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he said, “Conveniently, Professor McGonagall missed to reward you the points she gave the Gryffindors.” His nose wrinkled slightly. “I think… fifteen points is acceptable.”

He turned to leave. “After all,” he said at the door, throwing another indecipherable look over his shoulder, “you did do three times what they did. Sleep sufficiently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support! It makes me positively beam when reading your comments. I'm really happy to see so many people enjoying! ♡


	7. Already What We Wish To Make It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim learns something about Transfiguration, kind of sort of _maybe_ makes friends, and implements the last steps of Project Steal Paperweight. Not necessarily in that order.

Two things happened after the Troll Incident.

First, Hermione befriended Harry and Ron. 

This resulted in her unlocking a much more adventurous, more prone to rule breaking side of herself that concerned Tim— not because of the rule breaking (he was rather partial to that practice himself) — but because this rule breaking immersed her in the most dangerous affairs as possible. She, Harry and Ron got it into their heads minds to figure out what was being hidden on the forbidden third floor corridor. Despite there being a literal Cerberus guarding it. A Cerberus. 

The three were also keen on dragging Tim into the mystery, because, and here the second big thing to happen post Troll Incident: apparently there were some things you couldn’t share without ending up on at least friendly _terms_ , and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll was one of them.

These developments left Tim conflicted. On one hand, being friends with Harry and Ron made Hermione very happy (and having people that didn’t object to his presence made _him_ very happy). But Tim was suspicious of Ron’s involvement in the mean-spirited mocking Hermione had suffered from at the beginning of term. Ron seemed to have gotten over himself, but he still regarded Tim warily, owing to his green robes— and maybe also the fact that he’d seen him stab a troll in the eye. Potentially. 

So Tim stayed wary too. He and Ron tolerated each other begrudgingly, but simultaneously, Tim made vague plans to enlist Fred and George’s assistance in playing a prank on their younger brother.

Maybe he was being too vindictive. Justice not vengeance and all. He’d keep the plans as contingencies, _just_ in case Ron regressed.

#

Tim tried to stay as far away from the Golden Trio’s scheme of divining the mysteries of the third floor corridor (dubbed _Project Fast Track Expulsion_ in his mind) as possible. It wasn’t that he didn’t share their intrigue. He just had a preservation instinct, and saw no exploitable function out of risking death, or worse; expulsion.

Plus, Tim got a really awful feeling when he thought of whatever was hiding there. Like ants crawling through his stomach. He had the strangest sense that continuing to get involved with the mystery would backfire, and badly. He hoped it was just his Gotham-bred paranoia, because warning the Golden Trio of this hadn’t been enough to deter them. 

While they focused on this puzzle, Tim turned his attention back to Project Steal Paperweight. He had to find a different way to navigate the halls.

If the robot couldn’t reliably know where different parts of the castle were beforehand, it needed a way to recognize them while driving. Something like “when you see the red brick, turn right”. Implementing the ability to evaluate images (much less actually see!) was way too complicated though. The most basic system he could think of were magnets.

He could attach magnets to certain ‘checkpoints’ along the robots’ route and have it execute specific commands when it reached them. To do this, the robot would have to be able to recognize when it was inside a magnetic field.

Predictably, there was no such thing as a “determine presence of magnetic field” rune. 

More problematically, there was also no rune that could simulate an if-statement. The concept of runes self-activating only if certain conditions were met was completely foreign in Wizarding use.

Tim was not yet at the level where he could create his own runes, so he would have to make do with the faulty framework already existing. He pondered further over how to imitate an if-statement. 

Runes were activated by being fed magic. Once the process was initiated, it could not be interrupted until the magic had been used up— unless if the runes were somehow changed. Every book on runes made it clear how non-recommendable that was, since it usually didn’t break the runes’ activity off, just morphed it unpredictably. 

He needed a way to feed the runes magic successively, without actually being present.

In the end, his system worked like this:

“There’s a magnet here, on top of the car. These tracks glued around it make it so that when the car enters a magnetic field, the magnet slides forward until it bumps into this little hatch here,” Tim explained to an eager Hermione and the slightly less eager Harry and Ron. 

They were in the library, clustered around a table in Hermione’s and Tim’s customary study corner. The library, hidden between tall shelves and stacks of books, was the only place where Tim could regularly meet up with Ron and Harry without drawing the attention, and subsequent ire, of his House. They were derisive of his association with Hermione. But they would positively lynch him for an association with the others.

“I fastened a cloth heavily imbued with magic to the tip of the magnet. When it hits the hatch, it activates runes that turn the wheels of the car. I made the axle resistance so high that the wheels require a constant application of energy to remain in turned position. Since the method of activating the runes to turn them is so weak and inefficient; literally just pressing a cloth covered in magical residue against them; the wheels return to their starting position quickly. Meaning, I only have to attach a magnet to every spot where the robot should take a turn.”

“Tim!” exclaimed Hermione, delighted. “That’s genius!”

A timid smile bloomed across Tim’s face. “Thank you, Hermione,” he stammered, touched by the genuine praise. “It-… it’s not that big of a deal. You really helped me out with all the trials and test runs we did together.” 

“Okay, that sounded very cool and all, but I didn’t understand any of it,” declared Ron dubiously. “What’s a magnet?”

The three muggle-raised wizards (slash witch) gaped at him. “Ron!” Hermione said, aghast.

“What!” he replied, defensively.

“Here,” Tim showed him a couple of thin rods. They had originally been twigs collected outside. Hermione had transfigured them into iron (she was still miles ahead of him in Transfiguration and very gleeful about it).

Ron played with them a bit, somewhat awestruck. “And this works without magic? Neat!”

Tim showed them points in the castle he’d mapped out as locations to attach the metal rods. They’d learned Sticking Charms recently, so it shouldn’t be a problem. There was also the added benefit of four children hanging up metal sticks as an “experiment” being less suspicious than one doing it alone.

When they were finished, Tim set the robot down at the Gryffindor Common Room and let it run the test route he’d tried with Hermione before. It worked.

Hermione was elated, bouncing up and down and grabbing Tim by the forearms to do a little dance with him. Tim was just as excited, though he wore it in a more reserved manner. Only his flushed cheeks and triumphant eyes gave it away.

Ron thought the robot was “pretty cool” but didn’t understand what they were all jumping around for.

Harry showed a little more appreciation. “My cousin Dudley had a robot car once. I always wished I could try it out, before he sat on it and smashed it,” he told Tim.

Tim filed that away in an appropriate folder in his mind and told him about his plans to eventually make the robot remote-controllable. Harry seemed vaguely interested, and asked to be kept in the loop about his progress.

Now came the last steps necessary, before he could set his plan in motion.

Knocking on Professor McGonagall’s classroom during lunch break, he disguised his trip to scout out the room and determine the approximate distance of McGonagall’s paperweight from the edge of her desk, with a trip to inquire on ways to improve his still mediocre Transfiguration. Both were necessary.

“I wouldn’t say you’re struggling in my class,” McGonagall told him. “You are average, compared to your peers. But my colleagues tell me how you excel in other subjects and I can understand your relative non-success in Transfiguration might be frustrating.”

She seemed to sympathize. “You’re a very talented student, Mr. Drake.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Tim said, distracted by trying to gauge how much force the desk should be bumped with to make the paperweight fall off the edge.

“You have trouble visualizing the change you wish to effectuate. I see plenty of Muggleborns, especially Ravenclaws, struggle with this.”

“Yes,” Tim agreed, turning his attention fully to the conversation. “I just… I’m confused, Professor. Where does the mass go?”

Professor McGonagall shook her head. “I’ve heard that question before, and I’m afraid I know much too little about Muggle science to be able to speculate. Magic, in its nature, requires you to suspend belief. When you transfigure an object, don’t think of it as _changing_ it— getting rid of mass or whatnot. Think rather of a second form, one that has always been there, along with an infinite amount of possible forms, that you are bringing forth. Transfiguration… as a tool for the imagination, think of it not as altering a form, but of _choosing_ from an infinite number of possible forms.”

Tim regarded her with narrowed eyes; his thinking face. It looked rather as if he were trying to glare a hole through her face, and the Professor was about to ask if there was a problem, when his eyebrows abruptly unfurrowed and his eyes brightened. “Schrödinger’s cat!” he exclaimed.

“That’s…” the Professor trailed off, surprised. “An adept analogy. You’re well-informed for your age, Mr. Drake.”

Tim was too excited to address the mention of his age, which would normally set him off. He hated being sold short on behalf of his youth. “The cat is alive, the cat is dead… and the object is already that what we wish to make it into.” He got to his feet decisively. “Thank you, Professor. This was really helpful.”

He strode to the door decisively and, reaching it, he turned around once more. “I don’t do so well with ‘suspension of belief’ and I’m not about to start practicing it, but this kind of framework I can work with. Thank you again.”

He left. Professor McGonagall shook her head, somewhat taken aback, but amused nonetheless. Why that boy hadn’t been Sorted into Ravenclaw was beyond her.

She didn’t notice him placing a jamming spell on the lock as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to google it, but ‘non-success’ really is a word.
> 
> Tim, Harry and Ron are not _quite_ friends yet. They'll get there, but they first have to work out some stuff, and it might take a little while... 
> 
> Was this too much pseudo-magic-science? 
> 
> Credit for the idea of the analogy McGonagall uses goes to The_Carnivorous_Muffin and the magical system they describe in their fic“ Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” Literally the best description of magic and how it works, ever! This fic gave me goosebumps.


	8. Suspending Belief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of Project Steal Paperweight

He spent several days calculating exactly how much magic should be channeled into a rune to make the robot exert a force of 10 Newtons (enough to force open the door and bump McGonagall’s desk hard enough to send the paperweight tumbling off). He cast a sound-absorbing charm on the robot and paid a Ravenclaw Fifth Year to Disillusion it, since that particular spell was too advanced for him (not for lack of trying).

On Saturday, at midnight, he sent it out and received his long-awaited paperweight two hours later.

He presented it to Zacharias Smith the next day, before the student population was even aware it was missing. The boy’s shocked expression he would forever cherish. As well as his first independently earned 50 Galleons. 

On Monday, however, the news had spread throughout the school, since the suspicious Professor had grilled the Weasley twins in a bad-tempered manner in front of the entire Gryffindor Third Year class. She demanded whether her paperweight had been involved in another one of their foolish pranks. The two were adamant in their denial, although maybe a little too fascinated by the theft, while Tim innerly preened. His pockets and ego felt just a little bit heavier.

Nothing could ruin his good mood (not even Pansy Parkinson spilling juice all over his robes ‘accidentally’) until Professor Snape asked him to stay behind after class.

Suddenly Tim’s palms were clammy, his knees were jittery, and his mind was racing with worst case scenarios. _Snape knows! He’ll take me to the Headmaster now… there must have been some protection I missed, they must have managed to trace it back to me… what if they expel me? Have my parents gone through with the surrogacy yet? Will they take me back? How will I learn magic? How will I—_

“Mr. Drake,” Snape said, cutting Tim’s inner monologue short. The boy stared at him, blank faced, his long-drilled socialite’s mask firm in place, even while he panicked. “You have doubtlessly faced challenges acclimating to your new House.”

Tim blinked.

“Slytherin isn’t the most… _accepting_ to Muggleborns.”

_Is he now going to rag on me for my failure to pull off a heist uncaught_? Tim wondered. _Have I let Slytherin House down?_

“The House Hierarchy is something I, as Head of House, do not mix myself in with. What happens behind closed doors I cannot police. But I do not and _never will_ condone bullying, and it has certainly not escaped my notice how one of my charges sports injuries like bandaged fingers and other bruises.”

Tim tensed. Bandaged fingers… that was related to Project Steal Paperweight. The bruises and the rest; weren’t. Was Professor Snape perhaps… going in a different direction than he’d feared? Had he come to the right conclusion for the wrong reason?

“I have observed you for a while, and catalogued what there is to see. And while you haven’t quite been completely spared—” considering eye at his stained robes (apparently juice cannot be Vanished if its already soaked into clothing fibers), “— I have noticed that you seem to have driven off the worst of those harassing you.”

Had Draco bitched? Snape was his godfather. Maybe Tim was about to be mysteriously ‘taken care of’ which— _shit_ , as a Gothamite, he really should have seen it coming. There was a reason witnesses never snitched when powerful gangs were involved. Tim clenched his fists tightly. No way he could take on an adult wizard. Going for his wand would be pointless.

Wizards often relied on magic excessively though. Tim had the knife in his boot. Had since he’d first started sneaking through Gotham at night. Already had to use it at Hogwarts once.

He could surprise Snape. Catch him off guard. His chances weren’t good, but if worst came to worst…

Snape gave him a look, like he could see what was running through his mind. “To be taken seriously in this House, every Slytherin must prove themselves. You seem to have managed, and you seem less of a dunderhead than your peers. Continue applying yourself, and you could come to establish yourself in the House, and maybe grasp the barest basics of the Art of Potion-making as well.”

Confused silence.

“Madam Pomfrey has healing salves available in the infirmary. If she is otherwise indisposed, I also keep them in stock.”

_Is this… is this the most convoluted ‘Keep up the good work’ speech ever given? Is that seriously what this is?_

“Dismissed.”

Tim nodded numbly and exited the room. Standing outside the door, his brain registered, with amazement, that he was pretty sure he’d just received praise. From _Snape_.

Sometimes you really did have to suspend belief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snape claims he ‘never will’ condone bullying, but is the biggest bully all around... hmm
> 
> How I see it, Snape isn't exactly a good person. He might be doing good work (protecting Harry), but his reasons are all wrong (feeling indebted to Lily + life debt to James Potter). He's a spectacular asshole. But there are reasons for that: his own upbringing, abuse and bullying he himself experienced etc. As such, he's a complex character with many flaws, but with virtues too— and as someone he, similarly bullied and sharing a matching academic interest, can sympathize with, Tim might just be able to bring these virtues out.
> 
> To be clear: Snape takes his role as Head of House seriously. He cares for the wellbeing of his Slytherins. He'll help where he sees it to be necessary. For someone _outside_ of Slytherin, well, like said before. He's not nice. How much of an impact can Tim with his sense of justice and strong stance against discrimination have on him?
> 
> Please feel free to share your thoughts on this. Thank you for reading and for all the support <3


	9. Sidewalk Daisies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim returns to Gotham for winter break.

Despite Hermione urging him to stay and research ‘Nicholas Flamel’ with the boys, Tim was resolved to return to Gotham over Christmas break.

He didn’t know whether or not to tell them that Flamel had reportedly discovered the Philosopher’s Stone. It was a muggle myth. He guessed it was most likely true, but decided, for once in his life, to remain ignorant. Because considering the Stone being hidden at Hogwarts, attracting all sorts of seedy characters, only made his foreboding feeling get worse.

 _If it turns out I’m right about this_ , Tim thought, _I will literally figure out a way to sue Headmaster Dumbledore._

In better news, his Favor Service was picking up traction. Zacharias Smith, now convinced of his competence, regularly employed his homework help and brought his friends with him too. Not only that, Tim was slowly building something of a network among the muggleborn Gryffindor and Hufflepuff students, and his next mission was to figure out a way to get a constant import of Yu-Gi-Oh! cards into the castle.

His parents weren’t home for Christmas, although they said they’d try to make it back by New Year’s. Tim didn’t get his hopes up.

Instead he set up a PO box in London, whose content he hired a university student to collect once a week. University students were good employees because they would do just about any odd job for a bit of extra cash. The task Tim assigned was simple; pack the contents in a parcel and leave it at a specific location. He would later have his owl, Amber, fetch it. 

Tim also returned to following Batman and Robin at night. He had missed the activity so much, finally back on the streets of Gotham, tracing the vigilantes’ path through his viewfinder, was like returning home.

He was disappointed to have missed so much of the second Robin’s, Jason Todd's development. When he had left, the boy had only just been starting out in the cape and boots. He was rough and caustic, fresh from the streets. He and Batman had chafed at first, but Tim could see how their edges might grow to fit each other one day.

And seeing them now; they worked together like a well-oiled machine.

Jason was the grit and the harshness of the Gotham streets, he was the trauma and hardship, survival clenched by the skin of the teeth. And he was the perseverance of sidewalk daisies sprouting through cracks in the cement— the very hardened beauty of life Batman sought to protect.

Jason Todd embodied the city of Gotham, and while Tim would forever love the first Robin, Dick Grayson, and his joy and resilience, it was Jason who would always be his Robin.

#

His parents did make it back before the end of the break, granted, only by the second of January. They sat him down at the kitchen table and told him… they weren’t going through with the surrogacy.

“What?” Tim gaped, wondering if he had misheard.

Janet Drake leveled him with a hard look. “Don’t gawk like that, Timothy, it’s unbecoming.”

Tim snapped his mouth shut. Janet gave a long-suffering sigh. “We have decided it’s too much of a hassle to go through the process of child-rearing again. You fulfilled our expectations of you adequately, before the whole,” she waved a hand vaguely, “and you will continue to do so now.”

Tim stayed silent, though he very much longed to ask what the hell they meant. Were they going to pull him out of Hogwarts?

“It’s of course necessary for you to get your GED so as to take a Business Major and eventually inherit the company. To that end, it’s prudent you finish your required… _secondary_ schooling—” (Janet Drake would never in a thousand years say something like ‘magic’), “as soon as possible.”

“Is there such a thing as parent-teacher conferences at your school, Timmy?” his father asked.

“Uh,” Tim replied, blinking. “No? Not that I’m aware of.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” Janet snorted, “well, you’ll have to find a different way to get us in contact with your principal. We wish to move you up a year.”

“Wait— _skip a grade?”_ Tim demanded.

“Shouldn’t be so hard, champ,” his father said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Tim fought back a flinch. “You’re always bringing back good grades and whatnot. It’s not like you’ve been slacking off at your new school, have you?”

Janet narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you been slacking, Timothy?”

“No! No, of course not!”

She sniffed lightly, still managing to convey disappointment. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem to move you up.”

“Mother, I don’t think they do things like that there. There’s a whole _House_ of smart people—”

“Chump,” his father cut him off, his tone distinctly warning. “We don’t want to hear it.”

Tim swallowed and sat back. “I know you want me to move up, sir,” he said quietly, eyes trained on the ground. “I just don’t know if they’ll allow it.”

“Well, you either get us a meeting with the principal or you figure something out yourself,” Janet said, brooking no room for argument. “You’re a Drake, are you not?”

That was a threat if he’d ever heard one. He was a Drake… for now. And without doubt his further status as one depended on the fulfillment of their wishes.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, because there really was no other option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi... it's been a while. Because I was kind of nervous about this chapter and I also recently rediscovered an old fanfic that I thought had been discontinued, but actually hasn't!! Probably the best news of this year haha, I've been non-stop binging the past couple of days.
> 
> Anyways, uhh... surprise? Tim isn't getting disinherited! I feel kind of bad because one of the first comments I recieved (shoutout to MooredMermaid <3) was expressing excitement about the possibility of Tim having a younger sibling. I really hope this doesn't feel like a cheap alteration, since I had the possibility hover in the background purely for suspense... sorry （／．＼）
> 
> Also, Tim skipping a grade might seem weird but it's necessary for timeline purposes. It definitely will not restrict the number of popular HP characters he interacts with though, so no worries!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Setting A Precedent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Quirrell is on the prowl.

He returned to Hogwarts, shoulders weighed down under several packs of limited edition Yu-Gi-Oh! cards and the expectations of his parents.

Tim attended the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match, eyes trained not on the players, but the spectators. He hadn’t gone to the first of the season, uninterested in the wild, impractical sport, and later regretted it when Hermione told him how someone had cursed Harry’s broom and he’d nearly fallen to his death.

The Golden Trio was convinced it had been Snape. Tim avidly denied this, but they dismissed him as “probably biased.”

This did not sit very well with Tim. They doubted his judgement on account of his House— even Hermione. And if there was one thing Tim hated more than anything, it was being doubted.

He tried not to let it get to him. His relation to the Golden Trio was a little strained in the wake of his refusal to join their investigation. He knew Ron was suspicious and Hermione more than a little betrayed— Harry proved himself the least disagreeable by not really caring, so Tim tried his best not to rock the boat. After all, it was understandable they were freaked out by the broom sabotage and therefore quick to draw conclusions, and Tim didn’t want them thinking he was trying to get in the way of discovering the truth. He wanted answers for the murder attempt— because that’s what it was, even if none of the teachers took it that seriously — as much as they did. He just wished they wouldn’t keep poking around what he was pretty sure was the Sorcerer’s Stone to do it.

So while, to his disquiet, they continued their wildly speculative investigation, Tim researched the possibility of skipping a Year. All books about Hogwarts’ history showed no precedent. 

He was the top of his year, best in all subjects with the exception of Herbology, where the title went to Neville Longbottom, and Transfiguration, where he had just barely managed to improve his average grade from an A (Acceptable) to an E (Exceeds Expectations). Still, he wasn’t the first talented student to grace the castle’s halls— there was that Riddle guy in the 40’s that got twelve OWLs, a record— but none had skipped a grade. It was an unheard-of concept.

_You’re a Drake, are you not?_

Tim sighed. There really wasn’t anything else to be done than set a precedent.

#

Classes had let out an hour ago, so the hallways were mostly deserted. This one, overlooking the Forbidden Forest, was empty save for Tim and Michael Corner.

Michael was Tim’s first client from Ravenclaw. He’d been having great trouble breaking into that specific demographic as Ravens were uninterested in homework help or smuggled-in Zonko’s contraband. His advertising posters had been hanging in their Common Room for more than a month without any takers.

Yet again it turned out it was the muggleborns who were the secret to gaining a foothold in the market.

“I heard you can get anything into the castle,” Michael had said, cornering him outside the library.

“Just about,” confirmed Tim, because he’d already been asked to sneak in weed and he’d drawn a line.

Michael had given him a list of physics books. Now they stood in the empty corridor, exchanging. Michael’s eyes lit up when he was handed the books. 

“You like quantum physics?” Tim asked curiously.

“ _Like_ it? I would sell my _soul_ for the hypothetical-but-not-proven graviton,” Michael replied. His face fell. “Magic kind of throws a wrench in all that though.” 

He sighed. “My parents are physicists. I think, for their own peace of mind, they’re trying to forget I ever existed. I haven’t received a response to my letters since I told them I’d arrived.”

“Big mood,” Tim told him seriously, because he’d seen the phrase used repeatedly on the Internet (and 90% of his knowledge on Human Interaction came from the Internet).

Michael looked up at him, startled. “What?”

“My parents, too, are happiest when they can pretend I don’t exist.”

_Good job, Tim: establishing basis for emotional connection._

_Now, to more interesting things…_ “Magic and science aren’t mutually exclusive though. Magic functions according to strict rules. As such, it’s a system that can be developed and expanded through observation and experiment, just like science. And I surmise, just like science, it can be explained, too.”

Michael stared, looking somewhat overwhelmed between the baggage dropped without a warning and the striking hypothesis. Eventually, he decided to focus on the latter. 

“Wait, you mean using science to explain magic? But what about the Law of Conservation of Energy—”

“Boys.”

Both jumped in alarm. It was Professor Quirrell, standing behind them. He gave them a nervous smile as Michael quickly shoved the books into his satchel.

“Professor,” Tim greeted cautiously. “We didn’t hear you.”

“I d-didn’t mean to s-s-scare you. What are you d-d-doing here?”

Tim repressed a cringe. Why did Quirrell’s stutter grate on his ears so strongly? He could’ve sworn it sounded fake.

“Just, uh…” Michael floundered.

“Exchanging books,” Tim said earnestly.

“Ah. Yes, you are v-v-very well read, a-aren’t y-you, Mr. Drake? I asked you on that u-un-unfortunate day whether you read my dissertation on trolls?”

“Dissertation?” asked Michael, sounding curious.

“For his Defense Mastery,” explained Tim, not looking at Quirrell. The man was staring at him intently, in a manner that made him highly uneasy. “He eventually decided to take a trip around the world before further pursuing it.”

“A k-kind way to s-say I failed and r-ran off to lick my w-wounds.”

“You failed, sir? But why?” Michael asked.

_Isn’t that obvious? Quirrell can barely hold a wand, he shakes so hard._

“My dissertation w-was i-i-immaculate, but there is a p-practical assessment required to o-ob-obtain a Mastery… and I am less a-adept at practice. S-So I d-d-decided to t-take a t-trip around the w-w-world in s-search of a t-teacher,” Quirrell clarified. 

There was an awkward silence during which Quirrell adjusted his turban fretfully.

“Well?” prompted Michael. “Did you find one?”

Quirrell, who had been staring into the distance with a troubled look, jumped as if he’d forgotten of Michael’s presence. “W-What? Oh, i-in a sense, I suppose. I d-did find what I was l-looking for. But I r-realized there were much m-more important things than a DM.” He smiled; a hard press of his lips that looked more like a grimace.

Michael and Tim smiled back uncomfortably. 

“Well, you b-better run along, Mr. Corner,” Quirrell said. “I’d like a word with Mr. Drake.”

Michael, looking happy to be given an opportunity to exit, hurried away. _Traitor_. 

Tim watched him leave, wishing maybe he could stare hard enough to break through Hogwarts Anti-Apparition wards.

“I’ve been wanting to speak to you for a while,” Quirrell said. He was back to staring at Tim like he was trying to manifest laser-eyes and bore a hole through his head. “You’re an exceptional s-student.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I always want to support promising students. I believe, if it had been done to m-me, I could’ve g-gotten much further.” A bitter smile, like the slash of a knife. “I’d like to help you out; provide you the guidance you need to become great.”

“Sir?”

“B-Believe me, a g-good teacher makes a world of a difference.”

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t need extra guidance,” Tim said, letting his Gotham accent seep into the words. “Your lessons are informative enough.”

Quirrell considered him, looking almost disappointed. “You always struck me as a student eager to grasp all opportunities available for advancement.”

Tim smiled tightly. That was true, but Quirrell also made his skin crawl. He hadn’t grown up in Gotham not to learn how to _watch his fucking steps_. Jittery, anxious, harmless Quirrell ticked all the boxes on his ‘creeps-not-to-let-yourself-be-alone-in-a-room-with’ checklist— well, there _wasn’t_ a checklist (although he should invest in making one), more of a gut feeling, but Tim at his least rational was still pretty damn smart.

“Thank you, sir,” Tim said brightly, channelling Brucie Wayne level vapidness, and simultaneously, Jason Todd grit. “But I’m happy where I am right now.”

“Ah.” Definitely disappointment on Quirrell’s face now. And poorly concealed disgust. “I s-see.”

Tim smiled widely at him.

“It’s a sh-shame, Mr. Drake.”

Tim continued beaming. 

Quirrell turned away (not even half-heartedly trying to hide his disgust anymore). “I s-suppose you c-care a lot about your friends.”

“I do, yeah,” Tim said, all lower Bowery drawl.

“The H-H-Halloween Incident was rather telling, I suppose. With all the excitement, it slipped my mind why you were on the scene in the first place.” A narrow-eyed gaze at him. “S-Such a n-noble cause.”

Tim had spent enough time around Slytherins to know it was an insult.

Quirrell cast him another twitchy-lipped smile. “Well, h-have a good day, Mr. Drake. I wish you best of luck in your further progression.” 

He skittered away, leaving Tim to wonder how’d he managed to sneak up on them with such loud footsteps anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? A double update?? Hell yeah!
> 
> Edit: I was made aware that I had made a mistake with the character Tim originally exchanged books with: Justin Finch-Fletchley is a Hufflepuff, not a Ravenclaw. I've changed it to Michael Corner, who is in fact a half-blood, but who I've taken creative license to make a muggleborn. Sorry for confusion!


	11. Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor McGonagall questions Tim's Sorting. Professor Snape knows better.

The first time Tim was in the Gryffindor dorms had been when he hung up the posters advertising his Favor Service. 

Getting into the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw dorms was easy. It required only the observing (read: stalking) of respective House-members to figure out the locations, then reproduction of a specific code/solving of a riddle.

To get into the Gryffindor dorms, he’d had to sneak in amongst a group of drunk older Years so as to avoid detection by the Fat Lady. 

This time, however, Tim was in the Gryffindor dorms by _invite_ , and wasn’t that something? He sat in Harry’s and Ron’s room, the other inhabitants conveniently out for the evening.

Harry showed him the invisibility cloak he’d received over winter break. He and Ron were explaining in hushed voices how they’d come across the Mirror of Erised. It had obviously been a highly impressive spectacle, but, by how quietly they spoke; humbling too.

Tim wondered what he might see in the Mirror, but quickly put speculation out of his mind. He already knew very clearly what it was he most desired.

“That’s amazing,” Tim said, running reverent fingers over the silky fabric. It was like touching water, spun into cloth. “What material is this?”

“Beats me, but it sure is bloody wicked!” Ron said.

Tim made a mental note to do a bit of research into invisibility cloaks.

“I wonder why the Mirror was at Hogwarts,” mused Harry. “Professor Dumbledore said it’s a highly powerful, but highly dangerous artefact. People have gone _mad_ staring at it.”

“I’m not surprised,” Tim said gravely. “People often prefer a comforting lie to a hard truth.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, voice quiet.

“Hey!” Ron burst out suddenly. “You don’t reckon it’s here as a further protection for the… the _you know?_ ”

He and Harry exchanged a loaded look. Tim sighed, deciding to spare them the painful attempts at nonverbal communication. “You’ve discovered what’s being hidden, haven’t you,” he stated, resigned. “You don’t have to continue the eyebrow-wiggling. Just don’t tell me.”

Harry looked surprised. “You don’t want to know?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, yes.”

“I don’t get how you can be so uninterested, mate,” Ron said with a shake of his head. He looked at Tim like one would a drab article of clothing— a sort of pity for its boring existence. Despite the fact he’d been “advocating”— if his feeble attempt at subtle conveyance could be considered as such— _against_ revealing the secret to Tim.

“If it was me, I’d be livid at being left in the dark,” Harry admitted, with a wince as if the wording might mean something more. Tim filed it away.

“It’s not about being left in the dark,” he insisted. It must’ve been the fifth time this argument was rehashed and his exasperation was plain on his face. “It’s about staying out of things that clearly don’t concern us.”

“Tim,” Harry contradicted, “you’re literally the exact opposite of the type of person who stays out of things because it’s ‘none of their business.’”

Tim paused, surprised by the accuracy of the statement. Perhaps he wasn’t the only observant one. “I do stick my nose in everywhere,” he conceded, “but I know when I’m out of my depth. And anything so valuable, someone broke into _Gringott’s_ for it, is not something I can or _should_ try and handle myself.”

“Except that the same person after the Stone tried to murder Harry as well!” Ron exclaimed. He looked around at the facepalming Tim and Harry. “What?” he asked, mystified. His ears colored with realization. “Oh, sod off,” he muttered.

“I don’t see how those things are correlated,” said Tim, trying not to groan with frustration. “Harry has a target on his back, maybe some Dark wizard snuck on campus and tried to off him. It’s conceivable. But what does that have to do with the Stone? How are you so sure someone’s trying to steal it?”

“We saw Snape casting the curse, don’t be willfully daft,” Ron snarled. 

“It could have been the counter-curse!”

“You’re just so far up his arse you believe the best of—”

“Ron!” Harry reprimanded.

“What?” the other boy snapped. “It’s true! The stupid git is always favoring Slytherins, so Tim thinks the sun shines out of his arse. But he’s been downright _awful_ to us— and that’s why we can see him for what he is.”

“Not a murderer, Ron,” Tim said quietly. Hidden inside his robe pockets, his fists were clenched tight enough to draw blood. He realized abruptly he had to get out of the room. He had to get out or he was going to snap and bring out the colder, meaner _Drake_ side of himself and cement these two’s thoughts about callous Slytherins.

Ron, he didn’t care so much for. But Harry… that would hurt.

He got to his feet. “I’ve told you I don’t want you to continue investigating the Stone.”

“Because you’re hiding—”

“Because I’m _scared_ you’ll get hurt.”

Harry and Ron stared at him silently.

“I know I can’t stop you. So I’m telling you— be careful. Don’t jump to conclusions. And for God’s sake, _leave me out of it_.”

He left the Gryffindor dorms in a hurry. A poor ending to probably the last time he’d be invited in.

#

He wasn’t on exactly _bad_ terms with the Golden Trio after that. They just learned to avoid him when they were scheming with anything related to the Stone (it was settled; this summer, Tim was going to figure out how to sue the Headmaster), and since they spent _a lot_ of time scheming about the Stone, they ended up avoiding him a great deal.

Tim wasn’t happy about this (being left alone again), but it did make it easier to focus on his other project. The one that made his stomach twist.

He snuck a couple bugs onto some Slytherin Second Years. He should get to know his future dorm-mates, after all.

#

“Mr. Drake,” Professor McGonagall said severely. Tim kept his face pleasant and hands loosely clasped in his lap, from where he sat across from her. He was currently in the Deputy Headmistress’s office, Professor Snape standing at her shoulder with an unreadable expression.

“Mr. Drake,” she repeated. “To be clear on what you’re asking. You want to… _skip_ your Second Year?”

“It’s a common practice in Muggle schools. Promising students are promoted by being moved into more advanced classes.”

“And you feel… as if you’re not being _challenged_ enough,” the Professor said blankly.

“Precisely. Classes just aren’t stimulating enough. I’ve already gone through this Year’s and next Year’s curriculum. I can demonstrate the spells if you’d like” he offered, keeping his best eager-but-good-natured-socialite’s-genius-son face on (he’s had a lot of practice with that one).

Professor McGonagall just shook her head. She turned to Snape. “Severus, you were the one who brought the boy to speak with me. Do you think this is _sensible_?”

“Mr. Drake brews sufficiently.” 

High praise from the stingy Potions’ Master. McGonagall’s brows rose. 

“He would be wasted taking part in the tediously elementary Second Year classes,” continued Snape. “If he proves himself as passingly competent in other subjects as he is in mine, I don’t see any need for consternation.”

“That may be true, but you are not quite excelling in my classes, Mr. Drake,” Professor McGonagall said with a pointed look.

“Yes,” Tim acquiesced, nodding his head (and hiding his inner wince). “But you must admit, Professor, that since our discussion I have improved a great deal. I’m dedicated to learning and advancing, and am more than willing to put the necessary effort in to bridge any defects.”

She sighed. “I said before, there are no defects. You _are_ good in my class— just not excellent. I don’t understand why you can’t wait a year.”

“Have you been in communication with Professor Babbling, Professor?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Bathsheba raves of you and Miss Granger— mostly you. She says she’s never seen a student with a more natural grasp of her subject.”

Tim blushed slightly and averted his eyes. “T-Thank you, I, um, well, she allows me to sit in with her Third Year classes. I’m really interested in Runes, you see, and in Arithmancy. I’m, well, to be frank, Professor, and with all due respect of course, I’m outraged at the Hogwarts’ curriculum and how undemanding it is. Muggle schools teach Mathematics from elementary— that would be primary school— and on. I went to an advanced school for gifted students. And then I come here, and I have to wait _years_ before I’m taught anything remotely challenging— with the exception of your subject, ma’am, but I’ve already made my commitment to bring an end to that clear. Waiting to teach a student something is justified by their level of reception to the topic, how well they’ll be capable of understanding it, and I assure you now, I am more than capable. I would not like to waste a year I could have been learning, by waiting to be granted permission.”

Professor McGonagall stared at him a long moment. He reckoned he’d shocked her. Snape on the other hand, was as impossible to read as ever.

The Deputy Headmistress finally sighed. “I’ll have to bring it up with the staff and the Board of Governors at the next meeting. Mr. Drake, your diligence is admirable, but it has never been done before— and with good reason. Most students’ magical core is simply not mature enough to attempt higher level spells. Don’t get your hopes up.”

She dismissed him.

“That boy is remarkable,” McGonagall said after he’d left. “I can’t understand why he wasn’t Sorted into Ravenclaw.”

Snape remained silent.

“Say, Severus,” McGonagall suddenly turned towards him. “He’s not having any trouble with his Year-mates is he?”

Snape wrinkled his nose slightly. “Being a Muggleborn in Slytherin comes with certain challenges,” was his vague reply.

McGonagall frowned. “He’s obviously having trouble acclimating to the Wizarding system.”

“Or he’s just zealous and wants to advance.”

“Honestly, I think it would benefit him. To move forward. Maybe the Hat made a mistake, placing him in Slytherin. It would be detrimental to stunt his development now when he’s trying to move beyond his House identity.”

Now it was Snape’s brows that rose. “That sounds like a load of coddleswap, Minerva.” _That boy is a Slytherin through and through, because everything you’re saying is what he meant to have you think._

McGonagall sighed again. “Regardless. We can put in a few good words for him. But I’m afraid it ultimately will not work. Lucius Malfoy is on the Board of Director’s and he won’t like the sound of this.”

#

_Lucius Malfoy is going to be a problem_ , Tim thought. 

1) because skipping grades was a Muggle concept, and he would try to thwart it out of principal

  
2) because dear Draco probably had nothing good to say about Tim when he had his father ‘hear about this.’

That was unfavorable, because he couldn’t afford to have Lucius Malfoy doing anything other than supporting his plans. The man was the most influential on the Board, and if he backed Tim’s objective, it was certain to succeed. If he didn’t… it was game over. Not even Janet Drake could pull a miracle then.

It was time to set _Project Recruit Mr. Malfoy_ in play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will _not_ be the last time Tim is invited to the Gryffindor dorms, he's just dramatic! (And it gets worse before it gets better 👀)


	12. Tears On Library Books Are A Punishable Offense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Hermione have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter title so much grr why can't I think of anything better??

Hermione found him in the library. She sat down so vigorously, Tim nearly jumped from his seat.

“Hermione!” Tim greeted tentatively. They hadn’t spoken in several weeks. He had been wondering how to approach her— he had to tell her about his plans to skip a grade. But every time he caught sight of the bushy haired girl, sitting with Harry and Ron, talking and laughing and looking so _happy_ (amongst her friends), he chickened out.

“Tim,” she replied brusquely. “This is ridiculous.”

“What is?”

“ _This_ , us,” she said, gesturing between them.

He looked at her questioningly. “What do you—”

“You haven’t been by our regular study table in weeks!” she burst out. “What is this? This is a terrible study location!” She looked around the desk Tim had situated himself at with a wrinkled nose. “The sun is shining right into your eyes, you’re near one of the most popularly visited sections in the Library— it’s a wonder you get any work done!”

“It’s not that bad,” protested Tim, at loss for words.

“It is,” said Hermione, something different in her voice, vulnerable. “Why have you been keeping away from me?”

Tim floundered. “I-…”

He was scared.

He had to tell her. 

“Hermione,” he said, throat dry. His chest was tight. 

“I know you don’t want to be a part of the investigation,” Hermione plowed on. There was a trace of bitterness in her voice, that revealed she still wasn’t quite over it. “I personally don’t understand your reasoning, but all right. I respect your decision. But now you’re avoiding me, all of us, I just don’t get it.” Her voice was getting faster and faster in agitation. “Ron says Slytherins and Gryffindors just can’t get along, which I think is nonsense—”

Tim’s face darkened.

“— because you _are_ a good person and you’re _not_ the type to bury your head in the sand—”

“You say those things like they’re somehow contradictory.”

“What?”

“Being Slytherin and being a good person!” Tim burst out, irate. “All three of you think I’m— I’m _compromised_ because of my House or something, like having Slytherin qualities negates any type of other qualities!”

“Of course not,” Hermione replied, sounding exasperated.

“Well then why won’t you take me seriously when I say your suspicions about Snape are unfounded?”

She let out an annoyed breath. “Listen, Tim,” she bit out. “I don’t think you should be telling me _my_ suspicions are unfounded—”

“They are! You’ve got no empirical evidence—”

“I’ve got more than _you_ , you base your entire argument on a _gut feeling_!”

“Oh, Dumbledore warning of painful death wasn’t convincing enough?”

“It’s _Professor_ Dumbledore.”

“Professor Dumbledore, then.”

She sighed and ran a hand across her face. “Okay. We could go back and forth all day and I don’t want to argue with you.”

Tim immediately deflated, feeling guilty. “I don’t want to either,” he said quietly.

“Will you tell me the reason you’ve been avoiding me?”

Apart from feeling out of place among the adventurous Gryffindors? He was terrified of telling them— mostly Hermione— the truth. That he’d be skipping a grade. He was terrified of their reactions. If they would be angry, betrayed. If they would even care.

He looked down at his notebooks, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. “I’m going to move up a Year.”

Even not looking at her, he could feel her stiffen. “… what?”

“After this Year. That’s, um, the plan.” He lifted his gaze, but only managed to affix it somewhere at her left ear.

“You mean… _skip_ Second Year?”

He nodded tightly.

There was a momentary silence. Than, _“I thought that was impossible!?”_

“Um, yeah, technically. I had to, uh, get a few strings pulled—”

“You’re kidding me.”

He chanced a glance at her face. It was worse than he’d feared; her dark skin was flushed, her eyes wild. She looked enraged.

“Hermione,” he said weakly, and broke off.

“You’re _kidding_ me,” she repeated, louder.

“I’m not.”

“I thought it wasn’t _possible_. But here you are— getting ‘strings pulled’. _Tell_ me you’re joking.”

He didn’t reply.

She turned away, and he was alarmed to see her eyes glimmering wetly. “So that’s why you stayed away. Because you’re busy chasing bigger and _better_ things.”

How could he tell her that that was the _last_ thing he wanted? That leaving Hogwarts as soon as possible, his parents wishes, were the furthest from his own? He couldn’t. He bit his lip and stayed silent.

Suddenly incensed, she whirled back toward him. “Is there a limited number of spots available, is that it? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me for so long, huh? So I wouldn’t find out?!”

“What? No, of course not!”

She was breathing heavily, glaring at him. “Having strings pulled, and then keeping the information from the one person who would most want it— that’s very manipulative of you.”

“I— _no_ , Hemione! I didn’t mean to manipulate you, I swear!”

“Yes, well then, how come you’re only now telling me? How come you didn’t even-… I don’t know, _speak_ to me before deciding to move up a Year? Because, you know, that’s what you _do_ with friends. You care about their opinion.”

_You have a funny way of showing that whenever the Stone comes up,_ it came unbidden to Tim’s mind, but he bit it back.

“We _are_ friends,” he said helplessly, instead.

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have noticed with how you’ve been!” she retorted. 

“Ahem.” Madam Pince glowered at them from behind a nearby bookshelf. “This is a _library_. You can have your conversation elsewhere.”

“I _thought_ we were friends,” Hermione said, quieter. Her cheeks were splotchy red and her fists clenched. She got to her feet, and, feeling a powerless terror, Tim mirrored her. “But if you care so little for my opinion, you would-… you would-…”

“Hermione, that’s not true—” he pleaded desperately. “I—” _don’t even want this_.

She wiped at her eyes angrily. “Maybe Ron was right about you.” With a sniffle, she turned and ran past the still glaring librarian.

Tim sank into his seat behind her, vision blurring. He’d messed everything. He’d messed everything up. _GOD DAMN IT, TIM, YOU’VE MESSED EVERYTHING UP._

He packed his books up robotically, because Madam Pince was watching him suspiciously— she wouldn’t want her books getting wet, and with how his eyes were burning, that was a real risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> （／．＼）
> 
> ... sorry, Tim and Hermione. You first have to grow apart a bit before you can come back together.
> 
> Concerning the timeline... uh. Time is vague and mysterious. We're approaching Easter break now; Tim has been busy with his own projects, which is why he (I) hasn't really been taking note of other events going on around him.
> 
> Next chapter coming very soon! ;)


	13. A Piranha Out For Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim throws himself into studying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for disgustingly discriminatory language.

He dredged up the courage to face Ron and Harry. While Ron displayed blatant confusion—

(“I’ve never heard of that concept before. Percy would’ve for sure mentioned it.”

“It’s a Muggle one— never done before. Has to first be approved by the Board of Governors.”

“Oh, well,” Ron laughed, “you can forget it then, _ha_. Lucius Malfoy is a Governor and he won’t let it happen.”

Tim narrowed his eyes, surprised by the uncharacteristic keenness, then remembered how good the other boy was at chess. Ron Weasley could be a lot more astute than people imagined.)

—a ‘ _why would you even want to do that_ ’ attitude ( _Trust me, Ron, I don’t_ ), he took the news rather indifferently. “Good for you, mate. I guess,” he said with a shrug.

Harry, on the other hand, seemed torn between solidarity to Hermione (who was ignoring Tim’s existence) and cautious support. 

“I’d never try to make my time at Hogwarts shorter, even if it meant learning nothing,” he told Tim, a touch awkward. “But if you want to move up… good luck, I guess. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Since they were alone, and it was gnawing at his chest, and also Tim had a sense he and Harry could relate to each other in a deeper way than with any of the others— he said quietly, “It’s because of my parents. They want me out of school as fast as possible. I’m… I’m afraid they’ll find a way to pull me out if I don’t comply.”

Harry looked startled. There was the same horror in his eyes that Tim felt at that prospect. “That’s awful,” he whispered. “I… If my aunt and uncle made _me_ … I’d take only seeing you guys outside of classes over not being able to see you at all. Every time.”

Unbidden, Tim felt tears come to his eyes, then resolutely beat them back. The stress must be getting to him. But there was still that tight thing in his chest when Harry said _you guys_ and then _you_ as if he meant Tim, too— he did, he did, Tim chanted to himself and couldn’t _quite_ repress all the tears.

It was okay. Harry didn’t comment.

  
#

Hermione still wasn’t speaking to him. Tim threw himself into his studies.

#

“Have you seen the mudblood lately?” Pansy Parkinson hissed gleefully, sliding into a seat at the Slytherin table.

Draco Malfoy, who was spreading butter on his toast, looked up with an apprehensive expression. “I haven’t been paying any special attention to him, no.”

Pansy snorted. “Draco, you’ve gone all zen, live-and-let-live and all, but you are _missing_ out. I don’t know what he said to you, but— listen, he’s _losing_ it. It’s hilarious.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Losing it?” The Tim Drake in his mind was cold and composed, and terrifyingly; always two steps ahead. He’d taken the beating Draco had instructed Crabbe and Goyle to give him with barely a flinch. It was the kind of uncrackable blank mask Purebloods coveted, and Draco just couldn’t understand why someone like _Drake_ , a _mudblood_ for Circe’s sake, could have something Draco wished he had… but didn’t. It just wasn’t fair.

“He’s holed himself up in a corner of the Common Room and is having a reviewing spree that would put Seventh Years pre-NEWTs to shame. And get this.” She leaned in, barely managing to keep her voice down in her mean delight. “He’s ambushing all the Second Years that pass by and asking them to help him with Transfiguration. Apparently he told McGonagall he could demonstrate ‘anything from the Second Year curriculum’ and is now afraid she’ll hold him to it.”

From across the table, Crabbe snickered. He noticed Draco not joining in and quickly stopped.

“That’s… uncharacteristic,” Draco said slowly. “Not that he’s gotten himself into hot water. He thinks so highly of himself, it’s unsurprising. But… Drake doesn’t seem the type to. You know. Ask for help.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Honestly, what _did_ he say to you that’s gotten you so meek. Did he threaten to spit on you with his dirty germs?”

“Drake could say nothing to me that could even remotely constitute a threat,” Draco said pompously. “And either way. I’m _not_ meek, and you’d do well not to forget that, lest my father hear of this.”

Pansy, well used to the empty phrase, barely blinked. “Yes, yes, so listen. The mudblood positively _reeks_ of weakness. Now is the perfect time to strike! You’ve been so docile, Draco, it’s unbecoming of your family name.”

“Don’t tell me what’s unbecoming of my family name,” grumbled Draco, but it lacked bite.

“Drake’s the top of our Year, but he’s stumbling— he’s bitten off more than he can chew, now’s the time to get him off his high horse and show him where he belongs!”

On Draco’s other side, having kept silent during the conversation, Blaise Zabini coughed. “Really, Pansy. What is dear Draco to do— hide his books? You’re so miffed by the fact he’s better than you in Potions, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Drake seems like he’s well on the path to ruin without your help.”

“Nobody asked you, Zabini,” Pansy snapped.

“I think he’s right,” Draco said, making her gape at him.

“But—!”

“Drake’s digging his own grave. All we have to do is watch the show.”

But deep down, the idea had latched on. _I hear more than you think._ The warning had scared him because it must be true— how else had Drake somehow gotten wind of his whispered interactions with Nott when they were sure they were alone in the dormitory! He knew about the Dark contraband they’d exchanged, he knew about the secret compartment. How, Draco had no idea. It wasn’t fair.

But it was _Draco_ who was the real Slytherin, _Draco_ with the legacy that made him a thousand times worthier of the magical power that Drake wielded carelessly. And because Draco was the real Slytherin, he could scheme behind closed doors, pretend to still be playing nice while he sniffed out Drake’s weaknesses like a piranha out for blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concerning the feeling Tim has, that perhaps he and Harry can relate to each other ‘on a deeper level’; did anyone notice back in Chapter 11, when Harry says he dislikes being kept in the dark and Tim thinks he might mean something more—it was an allusion to the cupboard?
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for all your support!


	14. Exam Relevant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco schemes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back at it again with the awful chapter titles.

He’d been at it for an hour and a half. Pacing back and forth in front of his four-poster with the flashcards clenched tightly in pale hands.

His audience had gathered ten minutes ago, when the pacing became more frantic. “1878, Griphook the Grevious…” Tim muttered to himself. “1876… no, what? Was it _1879_?” He tried to find the flashcard and ended up dropping half the stack in the process.

Sitting on their respective beds, Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini watched him with bewildered expressions.

“Has he… has he finally lost it?” Theo asked.

“Looks like it,” Blaise replied with a shake of his head. “Poor guy. Honestly, having to wake up to your ugly mugs every morning, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Watch your mouth, Zabini!” said Draco. He turned to Drake, who was furtively trying to pick up and sort his cards at the same time. It wasn’t going so well. “What are you doing, Drake?”

“The Goblin Wars of 1870…” Drake replied, distracted. “Or was it 1880? Gah!”

Draco turned to Theo, the universal student’s ‘We-did-that-in-class-and-it’s-exam-relevant?!?’ expression on his face.

Theo mouthed back “ _I don’t know_ ” with a mystified shrug.

“Drake!” Draco snapped.

“What?” 

“Did we do that in class? Is it exam relevant?”

“No and no,” Drake replied, face crumpling somewhat. “It’s Second Year material but I have to know it— I’m trying to get moved up a year and I have to be able to demonstrate a grasp of the Second Year curriculum, but there are so _many_ Goblin Wars, it’s just—!”

Draco frowned. “What do you mean, ‘moved up a year’?”

“It’s a Muggle concept,” Drake replied, sounding harried. He’d collected his cards and was now flipping through them agitatedly. “Advanced students get to skip a year. I presented it to Professor McGonagall and she said she’d bring it up at the next staff slash Board meeting or whatever. I don’t know what channels she’ll go through. All I _have_ to know is the entire Second Year material, so that I can prove to the staff slash Board slash _everyone_ that Muggle ideas do have merit and that our society is stagnating under the traditional approach to schooling and it’s time to progress beyond them and integrate strategies already applied by Muggles— but what damn year was it?”

Draco blinked. He’d shut off somewhere around ‘stagnate’ but what he did understand was that Drake was advocating a load of bullshit— as could be expected of a clueless Muggleborn.

He looked at Drake again starting to pace and mutter and said meanly, “Well, that whole ‘proving yourself’ thing doesn’t seem to be going so well for you.”

Drake paused and glared at him. It _was_ kind of scary but only in the ‘how are his eyes so bloodshot’ way. He didn’t look like he’d slept since… maybe the last Goblin War (two years ago).

“Shut up, Malfoy,” he said quietly. “I _will_ prove myself and I _will_ prove that Muggleborn ideas should be taken seriously.”

He turned to his cards and resumed pacing. “The Board just needs to approve the idea. Then I can do it. I can do—” he whirled back around, dropping half his cards yet again and looking more than a little unhinged. “Stop _staring_ at me! I can’t concentrate if you’re _staring— the— entire— time!”_

Unsettled silence, broken only by Drake’s hard breathing. “If the Board approves…” he said, voice more subdued now. “Everyone will be watching. To see if I fail. Everything will be on the line. I _can’t_ fail.”

Theo raised his hands. “All right, all right, we get it,” he placated in a weak voice, glancing over to Draco for help.

But Draco was just looking at Tim Drake with a thoughtful expression, staring hard, unperturbed by the outburst.

 _Everything will be on the line? … I think I’ve found the perfect way to stick it to him_ , he thought smugly. _Just wait till Father hears of this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is Draco up to... hmm


	15. Interlude: Tim, Meet Trouble

Tim was absorbed in his textbooks, taking avid notes, glued to the page, when voices drifted to his ears. He was in an unfrequented part of the castle, sequestered in a room that was being used for storage; desks, shelves, cleaning equipment, old, dusty books no longer used, and, surprisingly, a muggle projector (it didn’t work, of course), all crammed into a room slightly larger than a broom closet. Tim had found it back while mapping the castle for Project Steal Paperweight, and despite the clutter, it suited his current objective well; avoid Hermione (and therefore the Library) and his Housemates (meaning the dorms).

He had made himself at home on the tallest shelf of an old bookcase, the wild boy in him that loved the rooftops and the bird’s eyes view of his city content at the height. The higher from the ground, the more down to earth he felt, ironically, and it was where he got his best studying done.

Due to the obscure nature of his chosen (not hiding spot!) place of respite, he wasn’t expecting anyone to approach— in fact, he’d been counting on it.

“—perfectly fine,” someone was saying.

“Yes, well isn’t it our civic duty as righteous Gryffindors to make sure he’s all right? Maybe someone tied him up and left him there!”

Now he recognized them. Fred and George. Tim extinguished his wandless _Lumos_ and stayed silent, hoping they’d pass without noticing him— and why shouldn’t they? Why would they go around opening the doors of dusty, unused rooms for no—

The door opened. Two identical, cheerful faces were outlined in the slice of light slanting through the doorway.

“Now, where is he?”

They were searching for someone? Tim stayed pressed against the wall on his bookshelf, watching wide eyed as they opened the door completely and flooded the room with light.

One of them—George, he was pretty sure— had a piece of parchment in his hands. “He’s in the corner,” he said, looking at it.

The other frowned at the bookshelf. “He’s not.”

“Well, Timmy’s tiny, better look again. The Map doesn’t lie.”

The Map? Were they _tracking_ him? What kind of magic was that and where could Tim learn it— weighing the cost-benefit ratio, he timidly cleared his throat. The twins’ eyes snapped up to him.

“Timmy!” the one closer to him crowed.

“Hullo,” Tim said, “um, Fred, right?”

For a moment, both stared at him blankly. “No, I’m George,” the one he’d addressed said slowly.

Tim squinted at him. It was kind of tricky with the light shining in his eyes but, “No, I’m pretty sure you’re Fred.”

Fred looked taken aback for all of two seconds before a wide grin split his face. “I reckon you learned faster than our dear Mum did, didn’t he, George?”

“With less practice, too,” George replied, wearing a matching grin that put Tim on edge. He didn’t think they could reach him up here, but he slid a little further from the ledge just in case. 

George sidled up next to his brother. “You good up there, Timmy? Need help getting down?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Tim said, “but I’d like to know how you found me. And why.”

“Our sense of justice was tingling!” Fred exclaimed.

“We knew there was someone in need…”

“… and we came to rescue them like the brave, chivalrous Gryffindors we are!”

Tim gave them an unimpressed look and wiggled his hands to show he was unrestrained. “That’s nice, but you’ll find I’m in no need of a rescue.”

Now they looked slightly stunned. “You’re saying…”

“… you _climbed_ that shelf…”

“… on _purpose_?”

Tim nodded at them. “I like heights,” he said, “and I like studying up here.”

The twins gaped at him, then exchanged looks. “All right, monkey child,” Fred finally said, “you got up there— _somehow_ —”

“Even though I’m sure you can’t even reach the first ledge,” muttered George.

“— but can you get down again?”

Tim narrowed his eyes at them. They might mock the gallant, honorable Gryffindor stereotype but they were obviously truly concerned… it was very easy to exploit and he wouldn’t even feel bad about it, considering all the digs at his height. “I’ll come down if you show me that piece of paper you used to find me,” he said.

“What paper?” George asked, blinking cluelessly. If Tim wasn’t already intimately aware of the twins’ deviousness (it was often ranted about in the Slytherin dorms), he might even have fallen for it.

“The paper you just shoved in your right pocket,” Tim replied and exulted in their collective wince.

“All right, monkey child, just get down first…”

With a triumphant grin, Tim scrambled down the shelf, somehow managing to hold multiple notebooks in his arms and a pen between his teeth at the same time. He stood in front of the shocked twins, beaming in the Tim-way; small smile, bright eyes and flushed face.

The twins looked at each other then back at him and came to a spontaneous conclusion. “All right,” Fred began.

“That was impressive enough—,” continued George.

“— that you have earned the right to see…”

“… the Marauders’ Map!” they chorused. 

“Behold,” George said, handing him the worn parchment and watching with a grin as his eyes widened, “the most genius invention to have ever…”

“… ever…”

“…ever…”

“… _ever_ …”

“… ever…”

“… _ever_ …”

“—been made,” he finished.

Tim stared at the miniature map of Hogwarts and the little names moving around inside. “And this shows… the _entire_ castle?” he breathed, astonished.

“Yup,” Fred said. “We saw you in the less frequented part of the castle, not moving, and decided to see what you were up to.”

“This is, after all, where _we_ go when we’re up to no good.”

“I thought you guys lived in the Burrow?” Tim said in false innocence.

The twins took a moment to understand the jibe and then they were staring at him with horrified expressions. “Woe behold us, Forge!” Fred cried. “The little Slytherin bites!”

“We share our secrets with him, and then he goes and insults us!”

“Our honor!”

“Our family name!”

“We better keep him,” Fred said.

“Oh, yes, if the chimp’s going to be so naughty, it really would be best.”

As they ushered him out of the room, ignoring his protests about having to study, Tim wondered if he’d just gained an unlikely alliance or gotten himself in a load of trouble— probably both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to BrittanyRose1 for this awesome one shot! Get ready for Fred, George and Tim; the Chaos Trio


	16. Confirmation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim finally receives his confirmation letter.

Harry, Neville and Hermione lost 150 points for Gryffindor. Tim was torn between grim glee at the fact Slytherin would now certainly win the House Cup, and exasperation that the three had been caught sneaking through the halls past curfew. He was also horrified, because Draco, incessantly gloating anywhere he could be heard, made Tim well familiar with the sensation of losing brain cells, and also there was a mention of a dragon.

Harry (regretful) and Ron (sheepish) wouldn’t tell him anything— Hermione had requested their silence. She would not speak to Tim, and she seemed to be trying to get back at him for keeping his secret so long by keeping her own.

Tim was fascinated by the prospect of entering the Forbidden Forest, although quite mystified by his teachers’ apparent sanity— or lack thereof; sending students into the very forest they claimed ‘Forbidden’.

He insisted on teaching both Harry and Ron how to cast the Stinging Jinx before they served the detention. “It’s relatively harmless,” he told them grimly (having been on the receiving end enough times before— and having returned the favor plenty more). “But it’s the simplest defense, and if you’re ever in real trouble; aim for the face.”

“I’m sure the teachers wouldn’t let it get to that,” Ron said nervously. Tim shrugged.

“You’re not, um,” Harry muttered between practicing, “having trouble with your Housemates, are you?”

Tim laughed, more surprised than amused. “Slytherin’s all about proving your strength. People pick on you if you’re an easy target, they’ll leave you alone if you can turn the tables.”

There was something steely in Harry’s eyes. “And can you?”

Tim gave him a crooked grin, filled with real mirth this time. “I haven’t had any real trouble since late January.”

#

Harry’s report of the man drinking unicorn blood solidified Tim’s conviction that it was not _Snape_ after the Stone and apparent immortality.

Unicorn blood was so _valuable_ , if Snape was going out killing unicorns for it, it would be to use it in the Pulse Restoration Potion or the Magical Strength Enhancing Potion, not to fucking _drink_ it. Drinking unicorn blood was about the _least_ useful thing to do with it— whoever was out there doing that must be desperate. So desperate, a cursed half-life was the _preferable_ option.

Tim’s resolve hardened. Hogwarts might have seemed an idyll compared to Gotham at first— but with madmen like that creeping just beyond its boundaries, looking for ways in, it could be just as dangerous. If not more.

Tim had been getting better and better with defensive magic since the first time someone had cast a Tripping Jinx on him in the hallway. He had a good grasp on spells within a year of his current age level— beyond that, they got tricky due simply to his still maturing magical core. 

He had to get better. Magic was the great equalizer. While he’d always struggled in terms of athleticism— having to work twice as hard to keep up in the kickboxing and judo lessons he’d taken before Hogwarts, magic evened his odds. It was the tool to being powerful enough to protect _more_ than just himself. Powerful enough to protect others too.

Although, to be honest. He’d had a tool in his arsenal before magic, and he’d choose that tool _over_ magic any time; intelligence. His mind was his greatest asset. (Knowledge was power.)

And in that regard, maybe leaving things up to the adults around him hadn’t been the most practical decision. They weren’t so different from Muggle adults, in that they got nothing done. Considering Dumbledore being a man to deem housing an extremely precious artefact in a school full of a children and detentions in a highly dangerous forest as reasonable, he wasn’t one on whose common sense could be relied. Not to mention how nonchalant he seemed about troll attacks, murder attempts and, most recently, deranged unicorn killers in the woods. 

Maybe figuring out what higher plot of his was endangering Tim and his friends in the first place really _was_ the most sensible. If you want something done properly, you do it yourself.

This cautious conviction had to first be placed on the backburner however, because several weeks before the end of term exams…

#

… the letter confirming his advancement arrived.

  
_Dear Mr. Drake,_

_The Board of Governor’s has approved of your idea. You will be moved into the next semester’s Slytherin Third Year class, on the condition that you pass the Second Year final exams in June. Best of luck._

_Signed,_   
_Headmaster Percial Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump, Order of Merlin (First Class)_

  
Tim smiled to himself. Project Recruit Mr. Malfoy was a suc—

“What’s that?” a voice by his ear said, startling him.

“Zabini!” he exclaimed, turning to the boy. “You—”

Before he could finish, Zabini was tearing the letter from his grasp. 

“Hey!”

Zabini scanned its contents, deftly avoiding Tim’s attempts at snatching it back. “So Draco’s father did approve the proposal…” he let it sink with an appraising look at Tim. “He’s getting commended for being so progressive, supporting ‘Muggle ideas’. Funny, huh. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Don’t talk like you’re some world-weary forty year old.”

Zabini shrugged and handed him back the letter. “Whatever. More likely he’s waiting to watch you fail and make a fool of yourself. So he can say “see, we really can’t trust those Muggleborns and their ludicrous fantasies”.”

“He’ll be waiting in vain in that case,” Tim snapped, stuffing the paper back in its envelope.

Zabini narrowed his eyes at him. Then, abruptly, the corners crinkled upwards in a smile. “I knew you were just putting on a show in the dorm. There really was no way you’d use flash cards.”

“What’s wrong with flash cards? Also, what? I don’t know what you mean.”

Zabini laughed. “You’re a great actor but an awful liar. I know your little robot brain can remember dates like other people remember names.”

“It's not,” Tim grumbled, “little,” and then froze, because Zabini had said _robot_ and that was something muggle. He opened his mouth to inquire, but the other boy was already on his feet, dusting off his robes. He looked the picture of an elegant pureblood, but something about the impish upturn to his lips spoke otherwise.

“Hope you pass,” he told Tim, turning to leave. “Then you’ll move dorms and I can finally stop finding candy wrappers covered in listening runes under my pillow.”

He strolled away, Tim gaping behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: is Tim white? It's not really relevant to the story, I just wanted to draw some of the characters from this fic (maybe). I see him headcanoned as Asian/half Asian pretty often, but I also saw somewhere a complaint that that would be stereotyping him just because he's smart. I think that's valid, but I also think a lot of the reason for the headcanon of Tim being Asian is Ryan Potter's Tim Drake concept fight. I just wanted to hear your thoughts before drawing him, but you can of course imagine Tim any way you want to :)
> 
> (Hermione, however, is black and I won't budge on that)


	17. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exams have arrived.

Tim had no doubt the fact the confirmation letter was arriving so near the date of the exams was purposefully arranged to make him panic. Unfortunately for those responsible, Tim had never doubted Malfoy would take his bait and had prepared to take the exams long before receiving verification.

Not to say he _wasn’t_ freaking out— because he most definitely was. Charms and Potions were simple; they followed clearly defined systems that Tim had great fun acknowledging and flouting. History of Magic and Astronomy were both the work of pure memorization. Herbology was tricky simply due to his unfamiliarity with manual labor… he had, however, no objection to getting his hands dirty (unlike spoiled children like Draco Malfoy) and was good with plants and their various functions on account of the overlap with Potions. 

The biggest problem was Transfiguration. At barely an E at the material of his Year, attempting that of the next amounted to the quality of a P (Poor) at best.

He was getting better trying to use the mental framework McGonagall had suggested, but was far from proficient with it. In light of the meagre time remaining till the exams, Tim resorted to just channeling pure intent through his wand. Magic was nothing but willpower in the end, and of that, Tim had plenty. His Transfigurations were crude and rough-hewn (he would not be getting any extra points for the beauty of his snuffboxes), but they would have to temporarily suffice.

He’d staged the dramatics in the Slytherin dorms only to convince Malfoy of his instability… and it had worked, maybe too well. His reputation was in shambles. Between studying, managing his innumerable bugs and projects related to the Favor Service, in addition to fending off a greater barrage of unpleasantry from his House-mates, Tim had no time to devote himself to other matters. 

#

In the weeks before the final exams, Hermione wished more than ever she wasn’t currently on the outs with Tim. How much easier it would be to learn all notable Wizarding revolutions of the Middle Ages if she had someone to drill with her!

But no. Tim would be studying for the Second Year exams, and thinking of this, she soured again. It wasn’t that she was jealous. She _had_ gone and asked Professor McGonagall about the possibility of skipping a grade, and she’d felt indignant receiving the answer that an exception was being made for Tim, as a sort of experiment. But she didn’t _really_ want to skip a grade in the first place, so apart from affront purely as a matter of principle, she didn’t envy him. She could even be happy for him.

Could’ve been happy for him, had he not completely blindsided her with the news, as if it didn’t even matter to him to keep her informed.

It was, to her, a sign of putting ambitions over friendship. It stung. Hermione was exceedingly vulnerable when it came to friendship and Tim, her first and closest friend, not even valuing her enough to share his intentions with her? This was a betrayal. They could’ve researched ways of advancement together. They already sat in on Professor Babbling’s Runes classes, they could’ve arranged more ways to challenge each other, maybe organize some way of sitting in on higher level courses and have it count as extra credit… Hermione’s head spun with ideas, she would’ve loved to use them! And if Tim didn’t like them, they could’ve found something else— he didn’t have to immediately jump to skipping a grade for God’s sake! Now they wouldn’t be having _any_ classes together!

Ambitions before friendship. Maybe that was why he was in Slytherin. Maybe Ron was right—

But ironically, for the one most critical of Tim’s House at first, he now only cringed when Hermione echoed his past words.

“Listen, ’Mione,” he said, deeply uncomfortable, “I, uh, I don’t think Tim was trying to spite you. He seems really torn up about the entire thing? And he says—”

“I don’t want to hear what he says,” she snapped. She didn’t want to talk about Tim. She couldn’t stop the boys from talking _to_ him (she pretended it didn’t hurt), but she sure as hell would forbid any mention of his affairs, or of hers to him. She told them to keep Norbert, and then even the Trio’s suspicions about You-Know-Who killing unicorns in the Forbidden Forest, a secret from him. 

#

After the exams, the Golden Trio joined the crowd of First Years flocking onto the sunny grounds. Tim would now be taking his second part of exams, the Second Year ones, so Hermione estimated they had two hours before he came out. This was of importance because she planned to be long gone by then, lest she give in to the urge to interrogate him on every aspect of the Second Year exams. (It was never too early to start preparing).

“Finished at last,” Ron sighed happily, stretching out on the grass. “Poor Tim, still having to take exams. I wonder what it’s like?”

“Don’t talk about him!” reprimanded Hermione. She was having a hard time beating back her own curiosity, she didn’t need another reminder.

“I’m just wondering—” Ron began, trying to defend himself.

“If you’re so curious, you should go take them with him and move up too then!”

“Oh, come off it!” Harry exploded, making his friends jump in alarm. He’d been more restless and tetchy lately; a product of his scar hurting. “Tim doesn’t even want to skip a grade! He’s not abandoning you to chase his dreams! His parents are forcing him to do it!”

Hermione gaped. “What? How do you—?”

“He told me, all right?” Harry rubbed his scar angrily and looked away from them. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but I can’t stand you being mad at him when it’s not his fault.”

“I-… I don’t get it. Why would his parents force him to-…?”

“I don’t know,” scowled Harry. “All he said was they want him to get through Hogwarts as soon as possible. Otherwise they might pull him out.”

“What?” blustered Ron. “That’s-… that’s _insane_!”

Hermione frowned. “Professor McGonagall said rushing the development of the magical core is extremely dangerous… getting done as soon as possible is the _worst_ thing to do!”

“They should get, I dunno, fined or something,” said Ron. “Jeopardizing a child’s magical development is a crime!”

“The teachers think that if he’s skipping out of passion for learning, he’ll be fine catching up to more magically advanced students,” Hermione considered, “but if they heard what his parents’ actual intentions are, they’d surely put a stop to it.”

Harry shrugged. “I think the teachers should’ve checked before okaying the thing.”

“Well definitely!” Hermione exclaimed. “I don’t know how it got legitimized without conferral with his parents!” She paused, realizing something. “Is it because he’s Muggleborn?”

At the boys’ questioning looks, she explained. “Wizards are so dismissive of muggles! They don’t even allow visits or teacher-parent conferences. They must’ve passed over his parents when making this decision, because that’s what they always do when muggles are concerned.” She scowled. “That’s awful. But… I don’t understand. Why didn’t he just tell me?”

“I dunno, Hermione,” Ron said, “but Tim’s always a little weird about sharing personal stuff. He didn’t tell us it was his birthday back when it happened— we found out a month later, by accident!”

That was true. Hermione had long since accepted the fact that Tim would always be weird about some things: he seemed surprised whenever anyone took any interest in him, he was shy and modest and yet imperturbable when it came to what others thought of him and utterly confident in his own abilities at the same time.

He never even considered switching out his sneakers for Wizarding shoes, even when he was given trouble for it by his Housemates (“They’re more comfortable!” he insisted). But she’d watched him anxiously deliberate for days how to approach one of the Ravenclaws in their Year and ask him what he thought of Schrödinger’s cat.

Maybe he’d been afraid of telling her. Maybe he thought the detail about his parents was unimportant. Or any other number of ridiculous things— with Tim, you could never really know.

Shame rose in her. She’d ignored him for two whole months and for what! A misunderstanding! Without doubt he’d missed his study partner too. She could’ve helped him with the Second Year material and learned something new while she was at it too, instead she was caught up in a petty temper tantrum. This was no time to be holding grudges. She had to apologize and make sure he knew about all the studies concerning magical development she’d read.

Harry was still musing, a troubled expression on his face. “He doesn’t talk about himself, Tim’s just that type of person… he never talks about himself… never… but—” 

He suddenly jumped to his feet.

“Where’re you going?” Ron asked sleepily.

“I’ve just thought of something,” said Harry. He had turned white. “We’ve got to go and see Hagrid, now.”

As they scrambled up the grassy slope, Harry explained, “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that what Hagrid wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a stranger turns up who just happens to jave an egg in his pocket? How many people wander around with dragon eggs if it’s against wizard law? Lucky they found Hagrid, don’t you think? Why didn’t I think of it before?”

Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house, shelling peas into a large bowl. “Hullo,” he said smiling, “Finished yer exams? Got time fer a drink?”

“No, we’re in a hurry,” Harry said, cutting Ron off who was about to accept. “Hagrid, I’ve got to ask you something. You know that night you won Norbert? What did the stranger you were playing cards with look like?”

“Dunno,” said Hagrid casually, “he wouldn’t take his cloak off.”

“What did you talk about? Did you mention Hogwarts at all?”

“Mighta come up,” said Hagrid, frowning as he tried to remember. “Yeah… he asked what I did, an’ I told him I was gamekeeper here… He asked a bit what sorta creatures I look after… so I told him… ’an I said I’d always really wanted a dragon… ’an then… I can’ remember too well, ’cause he kept buyin’ me drinks…let’s see… yeah, then he said he had a dragon egg an’ we could play cards fer it if I wanted… but he ter be sure I could handle it… So I told him, after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy…”

Hermione was getting a horrible dawning suspicion where exactly this was going. “And did he— did he seem interested in Fluffy?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

“Well— yeah— how many three-headed dogs d’yeh meet, even around Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy’s a piece o’ cake if yeh know how to calm him down, jus’ play a bit o’ music an he’ll go straight of ter sleep—”

Hagrid suddenly looked horrified.

“I shouldn’ta told yeh that!” he blurted out. “Forget I said that! Hey— where’re yeh goin’?”

Harry, Ron and Hermione didn’t speak to each other at all until they came to a halt in the entrance hall. “We’ve got to go to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Hagrid told that stranger how to get past Fluffy, and it was either Snape or Voldemort under that cloak.”

But running into Professor McGonagall revealed the Headmaster had just been summoned away on urgent business— they were alone.

“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” Harry said. “I’m going out here tonight and I’m going to try and get the Stone first.”

“You can’t!” Hemione exclaimed, horrified. “You’ll be expelled!”

“So what?” Harry shouted. “Don’t you understand? If Snape gets the Stone, Voldemort’s coming back! There won’t be any Hogwarts to get expelled from! I’m going through that trapdoor tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me! Voldemort killed my parents, remember?”

Yes, that was sort of hard to forget. Hermione swallowed. “You’re right, Harry,” she said in a small voice. It wasn't their spots at the school in jeopardy— it was the _school itself_. You-know-who had to be stopped and if nobody better qualified was stepping up...

“I’ll just use the invisibility cloak,” Harry said.

“But will it cover all of us?” asked Ron.

“All— all three of us?”

“Oh, come off it, you don’t think we’d let you go alone?”

“Of course not,” Hermione said briskly. If nobody else was going to step up then it would have to be them. “And I’m sure the cloak will cover us all— including Tim. We should—”

“No, we can’t tell Tim,” Harry interrupted. “He said he didn’t want a part in this, so it’s not fair of us to drag him in.”

“Tim wouldn’t want us going to stop You-Know-Who without him though,” argued Ron, but Harry was stubbornly shaking his head.

“I appreciate you guys coming, I really do. But I don’t want to put another person in danger.”

“We’d have a better chance with him though! He has a mean Stinging Hex, remember? And I’m sure he has more tricks up his sleeve he can teach us.”

Harry wouldn’t budge. “When he comes out, he’ll have just put some very draining exams behind him. We can’t force him to fight— maybe for his life— while magically exhausted.”

“For his life? You’re— you’re just planning to get the Stone, aren’t you? Not _actually_ fight Voldemort?” Ron asked, shaken.

“Of course not,” Harry agreed placidly, but his eyes were hard— he wasn’t planning on it. But that wouldn’t stop him if it came down to it. Then he turned to Hermione, gaze softening. “You’re sure you want to come? If we get caught, you’ll be expelled too.”

“Not if I can help it,” Hermione said grimly. “Professor Flitwick told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve percent on his exam. They’re not throwing me out after that.”

#

Exams passed without notable issue.

He quite impressed the Charms examiner when he succeeded at three of the four new spells on his first try and earned a “acceptable” from Snape while brewing— one step up from an “sufficient”, which left Tim glowing from pride the rest of the day. And he was certain he had scraped by with at least a passing grade in his Transfiguration exam.

He wondered whether he should try approaching Hermione. She loved doing a post-exam review session— maybe he could bridge things over with her using the one great unifier: complaints about the History of Magic exam. (Thank God Binns was too oblivious to notice Tim self-studying during his classes, otherwise there was no way he’d have passed.) Then he searched for the Golden Trio and couldn’t find them anywhere; they must have retreated back to their Common Room. 

He beat back his disappointment and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon basking in the warm sun outside. He felt completely worn out after a double session of exams and he thought he’d enjoy just laying in the grass and becoming one with the dirt. Then Fred, George and Lee Jordan drew him into a game of Exploding Snap, where the loser got dumped into the lake.

When Fred tried to drag Tim in, he nailed the boy with a Tripping Jinx and used a judo flip to throw him into the water.

Fred resurfaced, gasping in shock. Tim was afraid he’d offended him, but on the contrary— the twins were delighted. And since he’d come to know them rather well, he deduced he should probably watch his drinks from then on.

#

In the middle of the night, Tim gasped awake, chest heaving. He’d had an awful nightmare.

Hermione, Harry and Ron were playing a giant game of chess where they were the figures. As he watched, Ron was knocked to the ground by the opposing side’s Queen. Quirrell loomed over Harry with a maniacal expression. He turned around. His face, his face, there was a face…

Tim collapsed back into the pillows, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. 

He wouldn’t be getting anymore sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Was struggling from some writer's block when I tried to insert the entire middle part about Hermione and the Golden Trio— now it's come out rushed and clumsy. I might go back to smooth it out later, but for now I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer.
> 
> Canonically, Tim's birthday is in July, but I've taken creative license to place it sometime during the school year.
> 
> I reread that part of HP & the Sorcerer's Stone and found out Hermione got 112%??? Sis is out here killing it. We stan an absolute legend ( ˘ ³˘)♥ 
> 
> I know several people wanted Tim to accompany the Golden Trio through the gauntlet, and I was considering... but then thought: nah. Disembodied wraith Voldemort isn’t really a Timmy level threat yet, if you know what I mean. Voldemort would’ve gotten shanked so damn fast.
> 
> Voldemort, beginning to monologue: I—
> 
> [is immediately stabbed]
> 
> Tim, later explaining to Dumbledore what happened: he walked into my knife.
> 
> Dumbledore:
> 
> Tim:
> 
> Harry, innerly facepalming: yes, sir, that is indeed what happened, sir. Voldemort walked into his knife. Five times, sir.
> 
> Dumbledore:
> 
> Dumbledore: ah. The power of love.


	18. You smile upon a friend to-day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You smile upon a friend to-day by A. E. Hausman
> 
> You smile upon your friend to-day,  
>  To-day his ills are over;  
> You hearken to the lover's say,  
>  And happy is the lover.  
>    
> 'Tis late to hearken, late to smile,  
>  But better late than never:  
> I shall have lived a little while  
>  Before I die for ever.

The post-exam serenity was shattered the next morning, when the news arrived that Harry, Ron and Hermione had been admitted into the Hospital Wing the night before.

Rumors ranged from the Golden Trio saving Dumbledore’s secret inheritance from Quirrell, to Quirrell engaging in a torrid love affair with Snape, cheating on him with McGonagall, being caught in the act by the Golden Trio, then being killed by Snape in a murderous rage.

Luckily for Tim’s anxiety (— and the dormitory carpet, being worn down from his frequent pacing), Ron and Hermione were released promptly. 

The moment the two caught sight of him— he being on his way to the Gryffindor dorms to find them, and they on their way to the Slytherin ones for him— Hermione threw herself into his arms. He froze for a second, then returned the embrace, letting her sob into his shoulder. 

“Oh, Tim!” she wept. “You were right! I’m– I’m so sorry, you were right!”

Tim made eye contact with Ron over her shoulder. The redhead was awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “It wasn’t Snape after the Stone,” he said, confirming the terrified suspicion Tim had had the moment he heard of his friend’s hospitalization— it had, yet again, something to do with the damned Stone.

“It was Quirrell, wasn’t it,” Tim said flatly. Considering the rumors of the man’s disappearance and/or death, it wasn’t a large leap. “Damn it,” he whispered as Hermione pulled away to look at him with tearful eyes. “I should’ve known.”

“You couldn’t have,” Hermione reassured. “Harry, Ron and I— we were all sure he was the victim in this situation. We couldn’t have been further from the truth.”

She was wiping at her eyes, fiery resolve returning to her gaze. “We should talk about this privately.”

Tim, experienced from scouting the castle to place his bugs in the most useful spots, lead them to the nearest abandoned classroom. Hermione shut the door behind her firmly and cast a privacy ward. Tim’s brows rose— that wasn’t the type of magic he expected her to know. Not because it was Second Year material, but because it was a more… Slytherin branch.

“Quirrell was being possessed by You-know-who,” she announced.

Tim stopped dead. “… excuse me?”

“Harry faced him,” she continued unwaveringly. “You-know-who has been possessing him the entire school year, and he was after the Stone.”

Tim looked between them. Both met his gaze unflinchingly. “You’re… you’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

“We wouldn’t joke about this, mate,” Ron said in a weak but nonetheless resolute voice. “We, um. We know we haven’t been the most… trusting. Back when you told us it wasn’t Snape. We’re sorry about that— it was just, it was so hard believing you when—”

“Ron,” Hermione cut him off with an acidic look.

“Right,” he said, sheepish. “I should stop doing that. We shouldn’t have doubted you, is what I’m trying to say, because our reasons were wrong and you were right.”

Tim blinked. Again he scanned both their faces and found nothing but sincerity… and hope blossomed in his chest, a living thing that filled him with warmth. “It’s… it’s okay. It didn’t feel good when you mistrusted me, but— we make mistakes, right? I forgive you.”

Relieved, almost giddy smiles spread across their faces; it was such a beautiful sight it evoked the same on his. 

“How did Voldemort possess Quirrell?” he asked before he could stop himself. Their smiles instantly vanished. Ron had gone pale at the name, Hermione was clenching her teeth. Immediately, he regretted asking.

“He was riding around in Quirrell’s turban apparently,” she said grimly. “Harry said he was hanging off the back of Quirrell’s head like a parasite.”

Disconcertingly, Tim was reminded of his dream last night. Thinking about it gave him the chills. He quickly put it out of his mind. Instead, he wrinkled his nose and remarked, “Gross.”

“Uh,” said Ron, disbelieving, “it’s a _little_ more than gross, mate— I don’t know what your standards are, but it’s absolutely horrifying! I handed in homework to bloody You-know-who!” He shuddered. “What,” he said flatly when Tim just nodded in a remarkably blasé manner, “do teachers just regularly cart around dark lords on the back of their heads where you come from?”

“Well actually,” Tim said to Ron’s and Hermione’s dismay, “we have this guy named Two-Face who has like, two faces, you know how it is, ’cuz half his face is burnt off, it’s like split personality disorder but with like, matching visuals. I mean, he’s not a dark lord but he _does_ go around killing people, so…”

His friends gaped. “Okay,” Ron said slowly, “remind me _never_ to go to whatever dimension of hell you come from… which is it?”

“I’m from Gotham, Ron,” Tim said with an eye roll, in the same way you’d tell a dog trying to eat your tennis racket (true story) “that’s a tennis racket, silly”.

Ron gasped louder. “I am never visiting you. _Ever_.”

Tim sighed. Typical non-Gothamite. “That’s all right,” he placated, “you wouldn’t survive it anyways.”

“Okay, let’s move on from 101 Reasons Gotham Shouldn’t Exist,” Hermione cut in. That was probably for the best. (There were more than 101 reasons and they would've been there all day.)

He wanted to ask them what exactly had happened the night before, when they went after the Stone, but he hesitated, remembering how their faces had grown bleak. And Hermione was already powering on. “I also have to apologize for my… reaction. When I heard you were skipping a grade. That was, um, tactless of me.”

She looked down, biting her lip. “Harry told me your parents are pushing you to do it,” she said quietly. Tim’s blood ran cold then hot in quick succession, making him feel feverish. Harry had spilled…? He’d told him that in confidence… he hadn’t wanted to advertise it… like a flashing sign above his head, revealing how flimsy his position at Hogwarts was…

“I’m sorry for being such a prat about it. Even if, even if it _hadn’t_ been their idea, but yours… I should have supported you, instead of getting mad.” She looked up at him with a tentative smile. “If anyone can manage it, it’s you. You’re beyond smart, Tim, and you deserve to be taught accordingly. I— if there’s anything I can do—”

“Study with me,” he interrupted. “Please.”

Her smile widened, turning eager. “Of course.” 

Tim, feeling exceedingly awkward, but very determined, took a few shuffled steps towards her. “Bring it in, fam,” he muttered shyly.

She stared at him a moment then burst out laughing, and gave him a hug. “I missed you, Tim.”

“I missed you too.”

She was pulling away abruptly, frowning. “You _do_ have a plan, right? You’ll be at a distinct disadvantage in Third Year because of your less-developed magical core, but according to _Magical Potential in Relation to Core Growth_ , you can strengthen your magical core through special meditation, like exercising a muscle. The entire analogy of magical core and biological muscle is interesting though, because it raises questions about what factors your fully developed core strength depends on, how much it can be supplemented by exercise versus how much is genetic…”

“Well, according to the 2014 study by Alex Burnham, magical core strength is roughly 9% genetic— on average, purebloods might be magically stronger than Muggleborns due to heritage, if their genes are not weakened by inbreeding of course, but those remaining 91% are outside factors— also the reason why every child has the potential of becoming an Obscurial— and of these factors ‘exercise’ of the magical core is foremost. So any disadvantages can be overcome by—”

“ _Oh_ – kayy…” Ron interrupted. “How ’bout we save the nerd talk for later?”

He shrank back under the onslaught of two vicious glares. “Now works too,” he squeaked, hands raised. “I’ll just, um, sit over here.”

Neither Tim nor Hermione averted their warning gazes. “I’ve never heard of either an Obscurial or that study you’re citing,” Hermione stated calmly, continuing to make eye contact with a nervous Ron.

“I have a subscription to an American magical research journal. I can get you a couple copies if you’d like,” Tim replied pleasantly. His gaze, too, remained trained on Ron.

Without warning, the two burst into laughter. Ron’s increasingly panicked expression was too funny to keep a straight face.

“I’d love that,” Hermione said between giggles. “Write me over summer break, will you?”

“Of course.”

#

On the platform, right before passing through the wall to enter the Muggle world, Tim pulled Harry aside. He eyed the baggy, torn clothing the boy was wearing, wondering if it was some bizarre street fashion he was unware of. That would be awful style, but better than the alternative: Harry wearing such clothes out of necessity.

“We didn’t get to talk much after you were released,” Tim said seriously. There had been the Feast (Gryffindor won the Cup— happy as he was for his friends, Tim didn’t think that was at all fair and vowed to make it harder for them next year), then the train ride, on which they’d mostly just joked and laughed and played Exploding Snap.

His friends’ only explanations on the subject of the Stone had been brief and reluctant; they didn’t seem to want to talk about it, which— understandable on one hand, Voldemort being _alive_ was a rude awakening. But on the other hand, Tim was _starved_ for the facts and he had to constantly tread between consideration for his friends’ emotional state and his desire to know everything that had transpired. Not least of all; _how_ the dumb fucking Dark Lord was back from the apparent dead as a malevolent spirit, because it was more than just a nuisance; it directly endangered Harry. And Tim wasn’t reassured by the fact that Dumbledore had seemingly known of everything beforehand.

Either way; now wasn’t the time to grill them. He’d have to try and prod it out of them throughout the summer, but there was one thing that came before that.

“Are your relatives the sort to allow guests over?” he asked.

Harry winced. “Aunt Petunia and Uncle Dursely don’t like… people of _our_ sort. Or people I like in general.”

“Charming,” Tim said darkly. “Will they allow you to visit?”

“You say ‘allow’ like I’d need their permission.” Harry grinned impishly. “I’ll just sneak out. But you live in the States, don’t you?”

“I can organize something,” Tim promised. “Just make sure you write.”

“Sure, mate,” Harry nodded agreeably. “I’ll write to all of you.”

“If you need to get out of that house… just tell me, all right? Doesn’t have to be a letter. My phone number… here.” He handed him a scrap of paper with finely printed digits on it.

Harry stared at it a while. Then, “Tim,” he said quietly. “I think you have the wrong impression.” He looked back up, eyes wide. “I’m – I don’t need you to send the infantry or anything. I’m fine, the Dursely’s are– are unpleasant, but I’m fine, you don’t need to worry.”

“Be that as it may,” Tim said firmly, “you call or you write when you need to get out. Or _want_ to get out. And I’m serious. I don’t care what it’s for but–…” He took a deep breath. “But I damn well care about _you_ , so you tell me whatever it is, you hear?”

Harry gaped at him, flabbergasted. “Tim…”

“No buts,” Tim said adamantly, meeting Harry’s eyes like he was daring him to contradict, “no _cuts_ , no _coconuts_.”

Slowly, Harry nodded his head. “Okay.”

A shy grin broke out on Tim’s face. “Okay.”

“I’ll… I’ll see you then? You can… organize something and I can sneak out…” he smiled back at Tim, shy too, but eager. “You can help me with my Potions homework— Snape will have a stroke when he can’t find anything to criticize…”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll find _something_ , at the very least your name.”

The boys burst out laughing. They went through the barrier together, and Harry waved to Tim as they departed, Harry to his relatives (who he said he would have great fun threatening with magic) and Tim to the airport.

He was flying back to Gotham. To Batman and Robin. He was flying home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand... that's a wrap!! — for First Year, don't worry. I've already started writing Tim's Second Year and let me tell you. IT'S BOUTTA GET WILD. I am SO excited cuz the coolest shit happens in Second Year AHHH
> 
> Ok. So first of all. Thank you so much for coming along on this journey with me!! Thank you for all the wonderful comments and the kudos!! I can't wait to share the next part of the story with you. I will be keeping it all as one work, that's why it's not marked as completed.
> 
> Second; the events of the HP books take place in the 90s, but I love Tim using internet slang way too much to try and pay attention to continuity, so I'm moving all the events forward. Literally no idea when it is or how time works. Suspend your belief I guess.
> 
> There are a couple of loose ends left, so here's a sneak peak of what's to come:
> 
> •how to sue your school  
> •what to do about Theo Nott  
> •what's up with Blaise Zabini
> 
> And lastly...
> 
> ..why isn't Harry answering his letters?


	19. Project Stage Kidnapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Among other things, Tim stages a kidnapping.

The first few weeks of summer break passed without much ado. His mother mailed him a study plan to adhere to so as to prepare for his GED. He spent his time studying, and throwing himself into research on the American magical community. It was only by chance that Tim had been sent to Britain and was therefore accepted to Hogwarts and not Ilvermory— not that he regretted that. He did find the differences between the magical communities fascinating though, especially what each considered as ‘forbidden’ knowledge.

For example, while blood magic was completely banned in Britain as being “Dark”, some aspects were still considered permissible, even _good_ , in the States, like its healing applications or usage in adoption rituals.

This was quite fascinating to Tim. He agreed that some aspects of blood magic should be left untouched, but didn’t think highly of censorship or of a blanket ban on otherwise useful magic. British politics were reactionary and oppressive— they labeled everything subjectively unsavory as “Dark” and kept a stranglehold on social and economic progress.

Now, Tim was no politician, nor did he have any desire to be. He was, however, someone who did not like leaving wrongs unrectified, or complying to any rules he hadn’t judged reasonable himself. He stocked up on as many books considered illegal in Britain that he could get his hands on.

He also devoted some focus on researching British Wizarding law, more specifically Child Abuse Laws and how to sue teachers for criminal negligence. ‘How to’ then turned into ‘can you’ and eventually ended with Tim being deeply frustrated because the British Wizarding legal system was something of a bad joke.

The whole thing was steeped in elitism, giving a select circle privileges and liberties that made it impossible to enforce accountability. So Tiberius Nott, Theodore’s father, had his status as Lord of an Ancient and Noble House to squash legal complications like a child abuse allegation before they even arose. If it ever even came to a trial, the Wizengamot; Wizarding Britain’s high court of law and parliament, whose seats were inherited and therefore occupied by other Lords and Ladies of Ancient and Noble Houses — all tight with each other on account of the before mentioned huge class division; would strike the allegation down.

Bringing Lord Nott to justice legally wouldn’t work. At least, not without connections or leverage, neither of which Tim had. The number one priority then, was figuring out a way to keep Theodore Nott safe, and for that, Tim turned to runes.

There were runes Aurors used to impose a restraining order: they would literally not allow the assailant near the victim. The only problem was they had to be applied upon the assailant themselves, and Lord Nott would certainly not let any such runes to be administered on his body.

What about runes on Theodore’s body then? Maybe a shield. But Lord Nott was an older, more powerful wizard; he could overpower the shields, easily probably.

Since he had been studying blood-based rituals so much, an idea came to his mind that was somewhat… voodoo-ish. A ritual he had read about that transferred all wounds on an individual to the person who inflicted them. At first thought, it seemed the ideal solution— what better deterrent was there than the threat of receiving the victim’s exact injury? Then Tim hesitated.

Even in the States, such magic was considered Dark. He’d searched for a definition of this categorization; it was classified as any type of magic that could be used to cause harm to, exert control over, or kill the target. That seemed an exceedingly broad and vague spectrum, especially since the ritual in question would be used to _prevent_ further violence.

_A knife only becomes a weapon when used as such,_ he thought, and decided to say “screw it” when it came to laws and other restrictions. 

Because the ritual required a potion to be ingested with the blood of the person on whom the wounds should be inflicted, and since Tim objected to that less on a moral and more on “ew-gross” basis, he elected to alter the potion so that any DNA sample would be sufficient.

He stumbled upon a barrier when he realized blood had magical properties apart from genetic information that made it essential to such rituals. This didn’t discourage Tim— if anything, it intrigued him even more, but it did mean he made only minimal progress. There were some things for which he needed the actual guidance of an expert… if he disguised his true intention, would Snape answer his questions? He could see the dour man curling his lip derisively if Tim so much as dared stay after class longer than was necessary… although. To be fair. Tim had misjudged him before. It couldn’t hurt to try, otherwise he’d cave and use blood— even if it would be harder to get ahold of.

Other than that, he meditated a lot to strengthen his magical core. It wasn’t fun; a lot of sitting still and introspecting. Tim wasn’t good at either. Many times, he considered just giving up. His core was strong— he’d gotten through the Second Year exams, hadn’t he? Except that the way he had done that; pure brute willpower; had probably done more damage to his magical development on the long run. Progress was a process that had to be undertaken gradually. He shouldn’t attempt spells above his level without first strengthening his core, lest he burn it out.

And he could feel it working. First it was just a hightened awareness of his magic. In the beginning, it took half an hour of meditation to feel it flowing beneath his skin, then that time reduced. 20 minutes. Ten. Until he only needed a bit of concentration to perceive it, thrumming with soothing constancy just like any Gotham native could’ve told you of the reassuring continuous thrum of the city.

#

Tim was disconcerted when after several weeks, Harry continued to not respond to his letters. He had _promised_ to write.

_Maybe he’s busy and forgot._ Tim was well used to being forgotten, and this didn’t strike him as strange.

Nonetheless, he wrote to Ron and Hermione to ask them if they’d heard from Harry, and was perplexed to hear they hadn’t either.

_Do you think he’s all right?_ He wrote to Ron. 

_I dunno_ , was the honest reply. _Maybe he’s mad about the incident with the fellytone or whatever it’s called. But he doesn’t seem the type to ignore people, and he did promise he’d write._

Instead of from Harry, Tim received an unusual letter from a person he hadn’t expected: Blaise Zabini.

Tim hadn’t been sure how to approach the boy after he’d dropped the metaphorical bomb. Slytherins liked lording knowledge over each other’s heads (Tim was an obvious example), so he’d surmised Zabini would make an attempt at blackmail, but no such attempt came.

The letter was several pages long and seemed mostly like Zabini being bored and writing about anything that came to mind. The view from his hotel suite, the food, the guests his mother entertained, several paragraphs complaining about the color of his dress robes being a shade off, then a couple lines about the Italian Wizarding community’s intolerance towards magical refugees (and refugees in general), followed by a tangent on different variations of Ribollita and which was his favorite.

There was not a single question throughout the entirety of the letter. Tim wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to reply or not. It all struck him as some sort of hidden joke Zabini was playing, and maybe veiled beneath the joke, a message. 

Zabini’s mention of the refugees and their hardships, brief and to the point as it was, was so out of place in the uncommiserating and aloof Pureblood narrative he otherwise followed, Tim couldn’t help but think he’d done it intentionally. There were certain blatant parallels between intolerance towards refugees and foreigners and intolerance towards Muggleborns. Was Zabini claiming with his disapproval of the former that he might also not agree with the latter? If so, he’d done a good job making it as hard to conclude as possible. Why not just come out and say it.

A brief google search revealed Ribollita to be a dish traditionally considered _cucina povera,_ poor man’s food. It was like a flashing neon hint among Zabini’s nonsensical poetic waxing about how to taste whether the beans had been kept on the proper heat for long enough or not, and all the bullshit about his dress robes.

_Satire_ , Tim realized after his third time reading the letter. _Is he for real …?_

Obviously it was some sort of message, but one Tim wasn’t sure what to do with.

#

Returning to Gotham meant, of course, returning to Batman and Robin. But unlike previous times, where this had filled Tim with a sense of joy and homecoming, now he was just confused. When and _how_ had their dynamic changed? Back when he’d last seen them, they’d been like two parts of a whole, working together with an ease and fluidity that made Tim (yearn—) catch his breath.

Now they grated against each other, edges jagged and sharp where they had once fit together perfectly.

What had happened?

Tim lamented how his absence had caused him to miss so much. Now he could only watch in clueless horror as Jason became more violent, angry, straining against his mentor’s uncompromising code. Like the other half in a mirror, Batman followed his spiral, becoming brusque and harsh and leaving the streets bloody behind him. They seemed to be trying to wrench themselves out of the bonds that had once connected them, but still they followed each other’s downfall like man and shadow.

Tim wished he could do something to help his heroes. Batman needed a Robin. He needed someone to keep him grounded, not dip too deep in the darkness he fought to subdue. And Robin… Robin needed to grow. Dick had eventually had to leave the mantle behind to come into his own, it didn’t take a genius to figure out Jason would need to as well.

If only he and Bruce could heal their relationship before then, if only they could return to the easy happiness of before…

But Tim didn’t know how to help them do that (it wasn’t his place) so he was stuck observing from a distance.

#

When by July 31st, Harry’s birthday, he received no response, Tim booked a flight to Britain.

_There’s something wrong with Harry. I’m getting him out of his relatives’ home,_ he wrote to Ron.

_Fred, George and I were thinking the same,_ Ron replied. _We’ll bust him out. Dad’s got a flying car._

_A flying car, are you insane? You know how many laws it breaks to fly that thing through a Muggle residence? You’re out of your mind._

_Oh, sorry, thought I was writing to Tim for a while there, but turns out you’re Hermione! What do you suggest then, o wise one?_

_How about a regular car?_

_You have one?_

_I can rent it._

_And you can drive it?_

Well, with stilts attached to his feet, it turned out he could.

“You’re insane, little man,” Fred exclaimed, sounding delighted as Tim— somewhat jerkily— drove them towards Privet Drive. 

“I thought Muggles only learned to drive at what— 17? 18?”

Tim shrugged, keeping his eyes glued to the dark road. He didn’t tell them he’d learned from _Driving Rally_ , YouTube videos, and an impromptu first time test ride on one of the family’s Teslas in his backyard (the housekeeper was going to skin him alive when she saw how many potted plants he’d knocked over). “If we get pulled over, we’re screwed,” was all he said, and that seemed to entertain the twins even more.

Ron ran his hands over the leather seats. “Your parents, uh… just let you rent this out? Like, no questions asked?”

“They don’t know about it,” Tim said, then, “shit.” He’d missed a turn. He brought the car to an abrupt stop, nearly sending Ron flying through the windshield and the twins tumbling wildly in the backseat. “Put your seatbelts on, idiots!” he snapped. “Are you tryin’a get’ch ’urselves killed?”

The Weasleys caught each other’s eyes with a wince and struggled to figure the seatbelt mechanism out. Tim performed the clumsiest U-turn known to man, driving halfway across the curb in the process, and thanked his lucky stars that it was night and there were no pedestrians to witness his awful driving (or be killed by it.)

They arrived at Number 4 Privet Drive. Peering out at the peaceful house with its perfectly trimmed hedges and cheery windows, Ron asked, “Which one d’ you reckon ’s his?”

“One with the bars,” Tim said grimly. He tore the stilts off his feet, grabbed his bag, and got out of the car.

“Tim? Tim!” George turned to his younger brother, aghast. “Is he always like this?”

Ron shook his head helplessly, fumbling to unbuckle his seatbelt. “You mean not tell anyone the plan before jumping in? Yeah, he’s— _urk_ , how does this bloody thing _work_?” He tugged at the belt furiously. 

Meanwhile, Tim had gotten a sturdy looking rope out of his bag. The top was tied into a loop, which, after a couple of tries, he managed to lasso around a drainpipe on the roof. Screwdriver clenched between his teeth, Tim started climbing up the side of the house.

“Monkey child, what the hell,” Fred hissed, getting out of the car. The drainpipe creaked ominously. A face appeared behind the barred window— Harry, slack-jawed, blinking his eyes blearily.

Reaching his window, Tim began unscrewing the bolts. “Get your things, Harry!” he commanded without looking up. He had six bolts left to go and his arm was beginning to shake from clutching the rope.

Harry wrenched himself into activity, hurriedly tossing his belongings into his trunk. Fred and George found another rope in Tim’s bag. “Tie it around the bars!” they shouted up at Tim. “We’ll pull them off!”

That seemed more sensible, since Tim had only managed to get three bolts off and he didn’t think he would be able to hold himself up much longer. The twins tossed him one end of the rope. With clumsy fingers, he knotted it tightly around the bars.

Fred and George, with the other end in hand, heaved. The metal groaned. “A little more!” Tim cried. “Hurry!” 

With a violent yank and loud screech, the bars were torn off the window. Tim gestured for Harry to throw the trunk onto the grass below— it had cushioning charms and would be fine— and follow him.

One arm around Hedwig’s cage, Harry shimmied down the rope after Tim. The door to Harry’s bedroom slammed open, and someone bellowed, “Boy!”

“See you next summer!” Harry called out to the livid, purple-faced man leaning out of the window. The boys piled into the car, and Tim, barely able to see the road, stepped on the gas. 

#

They stopped a couple of blocks later, so that Tim could get his stilts back on. Then they set course for the Burrow.


	20. A Method To The Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim spends the rest of the summer at the Burrow.

The Burrow was a large, precariously crooked house, several stories high and looking like multiple houses cobbled together. Four or five chimneys merrily blew steam on top of the roof. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees, casting light on several fat chickens pecking their way around the yard. 

Tim loved it immediately. 

“It’s not much,” said Ron.

“It’s _wonderful_ ,” said Harry, and Tim was inclined to agree.

The troupe got out of the car, Fred whispering, “Now we’ll go upstairs really quietly and wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be pleased to see Tim and Harry and no one need ever know we snuck out.”

“Right,” said Ron. “Come on, guys. I sleep at the—” he broke off, going a nasty greenish color. Tim and Harry turned to where his gaze was fixed and saw Mrs. Weasley marching across the yard, scattering chickens.

“ _Ah_ ,” said Fred.

“Oh dear,” said George.

Mrs. Weasley came to halt in front of them, hands on her hips. For such a short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.

“Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice.

“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” asked Mrs. Weasley in a deadly whisper. 

“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to—”

All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.

“ _Beds empty! No note! Out of my mind with worry— did you care?— never, as long as I’ve lived— just wait until your father gets home—_ ”

It went on a great deal longer. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Tim and Harry, who backed away.

“Harry, and— oh! Tim, right? I’m very happy to see you, dears,” she said. “Come in and have some breakfast.”

#

At first, Tim tried to extricate himself, insisting he didn’t want to be a bother and could fly back to Gotham without delay. The Weasleys wouldn’t hear of it. The matriarch seemed overjoyed at having another scrawny boy to feed, Fred, George and Ron insisted he stay longer, and all of them were horrified at the prospect of ‘getting on a huge metal bird launched over the ocean’. Tim tried to explain aerodynamics to them, which only Mr. Weasley seemed remotely interested and didn’t at all understand.

He ended up staying the rest of the summer with them.

He had to go to the nearest Muggle village to use his computer and inform his parents of the new sleeping arrangement via email. He’d make the trip once a week and spend several hours to finish the projects he required Internet access to. 

It was a bummer he couldn’t use his computer at the Burrow, but he soon found other things to occupy him, like the radio over the mantelplace.

“How does it work?” he asked Mr. Weasley in awe. “I thought technology doesn’t function in places saturated with magic.”

“Well, I don’t know about tech-logy,” Mr. Weasley said, “but our radios are built from a special, magic-repellant metal; Adversium.”

Tim’s eyes just about bugged out of his head. “ _Magic-repellant metal?_ That exists?”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Weasley. “We tried to power regular metal by magic— eventually, the spells wear off. So we just duplicated muggle radios, using Adversium.”

“And it runs on batteries?”

“Bat-trees? You mean this?” Mr. Weasley asked, holding it up. “We call them power-packs.”

Tim made a face. “Gross,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said, uh… no…ice. Noice. Like, nice.”

“Oh, is that muggle slang?” Mr. Weasley asked, sounding thrilled.

Tim’s cringe deepened. “Um. Yes.”

“That’s fantastic!” 

_What have I done?_ Tim asked himself.

Other than teach Mr. Weasley cursed muggle phrases, Tim placed an order for as much Adversium he could get his hands on (not getting disinherited from a multimillion empire sure did come in handy sometimes). There was one large supplier, several smaller branches of foreign suppliers, and one illegal one (that he was aware of), and Tim bought them all out.

“You don’t mind if I store them next to the broomshed, do you?” he asked Mrs. Weasley, who, perplexed, agreed to let him stockpile several large boxes filled with Adversium in the yard. 

“What are you planning to do with it, dear?” she asked.

“Oh, just mess around a bit.” He proceeded to hole himself up in the twins’ room, from which twice the usual amount of explosions emanated in the next few days.

Several days later, he emerged with the widest grin any of the Burrow’s occupants had ever seen on his face, and a functioning flashlight.

“Noice, Tim!” Mr. Weasley praised after he demonstrated how it worked. Tim turned red and thanked him. 

“I just had to make the outer casing from Adversium,” Tim explained, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet from elation. “It protects the system inside— the electrical circuit that powers the lamp— from going haywire, like it usually would in the presence of magic.”

“Wicked,” breathed Harry. “If you could make all muggle gadgets from Adversium—?”

The two shared an evilly conspiratorial look.

“Imagine setting a roomba loose in the Slytherin dorms…”

“No one would be able to stop or destroy it, because of the Adversium…”

“All the purebloods would lose their sh— er, their… marbles…”

“Or put Adversium in the people’s pockets and see their spells malfunction,” suggested Fred, and now there were four scheming glances being exchanged.

“Now you two stop this instant!” Mrs. Weasley barked at the twins. “I know that look when I see it, and I don’t want to have to hear yet _again_ from your Head of House about how you’ve caused mischief! You put any foolish plans out of your heads this instant, you hear?”

“And boys,” she said, turning to Tim and Harry, “the flash-stick—”

“Flashlight.”

“— flashlight, sorry dear, is wonderful, but it wouldn’t do to get the wrong ideas…”

She trailed off, seeing two innocently angelic faces blinking up at her. 

“Just for a bit of fun, ma’am, we wouldn’t want to cause any trouble, of course,” Tim reassured.

Harry nodded, looking contrite. “No trouble, Mrs. Weasley,” he echoed.

“Oh,” Mrs. Weasley said, softening. “Of course, boys. Not like these two troublemakers here.” She shot the Fred and George a glare, then bustled away.

The twins gaped at Tim and Harry. “How did you…?”

The two burst out laughing.

“Are we really gonna set a roomba loose at Hogwarts?” asked Harry between gasps. 

“Hmm,” mused Tim with a twinkle in his eyes that could put Dumbledore’s to shame, “I bet we could do even better than that.”

#

Theodore wasn’t the only student at Hogwarts with a… less than ideal living situation (Tim didn’t count himself among this list).

“Harry,” he said one afternoon with the type of look on his face that made Harry expect the worst, “when we came to bust you out… there were _bars_ on your window.”

Harry winced. “Yeah… they freaked out when Dobby ruined their dinner party.”

“Dobby, right. Before you knew he was intercepting your mail— did you try to send me a letter? About… you know?”

“Asking to be bailed out?” Harry deflated. “It doesn’t really matter in the end. I–… I spoke to Professor Dumbledore, he told me I have to stay at Privet Drive.”

“ _What?”_

“There are powerful wards there apparently, caused by my mother’s sacrifice,” he mumbled. “They’ll only work at the Dursely’s place, because they’re my relatives. I have to go back there every summer, to keep them in place.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “First of all, it’s ridiculous that Dumbledore should have the authority to send you back to where you’re obviously mistreated—”

“Hey!” Harry interjected. “Professor Dumbledore’s a great man!”

“Beyond the point,” said Tim, who thought there was a distinct difference between being great and being _good_. “What _is_ of relevance are these wards… they only work for relatives, you say? That sounds like blood magic.”

“Is that… bad?”

“Blood magic’s been illegal since the 20’s,” Tim replied. “It’s interesting your mom would use it— I mean, obviously, she made the right call.” Harry was sinking into himself like a crumpled sheet of paper, so Tim thought it prudent to quickly change the subject. “Doesn’t change the fact that I don’t really care about the wards. Keeping you safe from what’s outside is useless if they don’t keep you safe from what’s inside.”

“The Dursely’s don’t _hurt_ me, Tim,” Harry hissed angrily, “they don’t hit me or anything, I told you, it’s _fine_. You don’t need to go around playing hero! If Dumbledore said—”

“If Dumbledore said you’re safest with bloodwards, I’ll make you some damn bloodwards!”

“…I thought you said they’re illegal?”

“Yeah, well it didn’t stop them from saving your life last time, did it?” Tim snapped. “You can go back to the Dursely’s, but if for one second you feel unsafe— I’m serious; I will get you out. I’ll find a way.”

Harry looked at him, obviously doubtful, but unwilling to voice it when Tim glared so determinedly. 

He had good reason to doubt, because if Dumbledore was invested in his living arrangements, Tim would have a hard time going toe to toe with him. But Tim had, as the kids these days put it, “no limits”, so he was serious about finding a way, and maybe Harry recognized that too.

“All right, Tim,” he agreed finally. Then, quieter, “… thank you.”

#

The highlight of Tim’s summer was when the oldest Weasley child, Bill, visited the Burrow briefly.

Bill was a Wardbreaker at Gringott’s. Tim was instantly fascinated and hounded the older boy with a notepad, asking a million questions. Bill was baffled, then annoyed, then, when Tim showed him some of the calculations he’d made trying to construct the remote-controlled robot, intrigued. 

They spent countless hours at the Weasley’s dining table, going over runic arrays. 

“They teach mostly Elder Futhark at Hogwarts,” explained Bill one morning over a cup of tea (—coffee, in Tim’s case). Harry quietly ate his breakfast next to them. The three were the only ones up already. “But there are languages and systems not traditionally labelled as runes yet nonetheless used as a written form of magic. Ancient Greek. Old Chinese. It’s fascinating— different languages have different spells. Ours are based off Latin and Greek mostly— Italic language derivatives. But a South American witch or wizard would cast spells of Arawakan language family descent. You see how diverse this makes magic, how nuanced?”

“That’s amazing,” Tim agreed. “Do they teach other languages at Hogwarts, at least in relation to runes?”

“Well, Professor Babbling occasionally hosts workshops for Latin. She’s extremely knowledgeable when it comes to languages— she did her Runes Mastery thesis on the Aboriginal navigational magic, for example. Ask her for extra tutoring if you’d like; it’s what I did— studied hieroglyphs on top of the regular Ancient Runes class my entire time at Hogwarts. Good thing too— I’d have a much harder time at my job if I hadn’t.”

Tim frowned. “So it’s not commonplace then.”

“Definitely. Did you know I’m the only human Wardbreaker at Gringott’s?”

“ _Seriously_?”

“Yup,” Bill said with a laugh. “You might give me a run for my money though, the rate you’re going.”

Tim blushed. At that moment, Ron and Percy came trooping down the stairs. 

“Morning,” Percy greeted briskly, saving Tim from a stuttering reply to Bill.

Ron, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, plopped himself down next to Tim. “Ugh— back to studying _again?_ You’re just as bad as Hermione, mate.”

“I think it’s quite commendable how seriously Tim takes his studies,” Percy said primly. “I for one am positively _swamped_ with my extra credit assignments— Tim?” He gave the boy a puzzled glance as did Ron, whose arm the young Slytherin had grabbed hold of.

“Uhh...” Ron said as Tim took a ballpoint pen and scribbled across his freckled skin.

Tim gave him a bright grin and channeled a tiny amount of magic into the runes he’d written. Ron yelped, jerking backwards.

“Wha—? Mate!”

Bill gave a loud, bellowing laugh. “Clever!”

“Runic equivalent of a Stinging Hex,” Tim explained. “Comes in handy, since runes don’t activate the Trace.”

Ron pouted. “I take it back. You’re _worse_.”

“— than your worst nightmare,” Tim finished cheekily, and felt a bubble of light in his chest as the others laughed.

#

When Hermione came to visit, Tim decided it was time to finally force the entire story of the Stone out of them.

As they told him, about the keys, the chessboard, the riddle, the face, his blood ran cold. Because… it sounded familiar. Too familiar.

He still remembered that dream he’d had, the night it happened. Usually, a nightmare wouldn’t have stuck in his memory for so long. But this one was so vivid, so real, it was imprinted in his mind like a stamp; a warning not to leave his friends to struggle alone.

Apart from its cautionary function, he hadn’t thought more of it. Now he felt rather as if the rug had been pulled out from under his feet.

“Tim?” Hermione questioned, concerned. The boy was staring at the ground with a strange expression on his face.

“Which figure was it that knocked Ron out?” Tim asked slowly.

The Golden Trio exchanged confused glances. “The Queen,” Ron said.

“The Queen,” Tim repeated faintly. “I… I had a dream about that.”

“You had a dream about the Queen?” Harry asked, the tone of voice one would generally take with a spooked child.

Tim looked up at him, eyes wide and alarmed. “I had a dream,” he said, “about you three playing chess on a giant board with live figures. The Queen knocked Ron out. There was fire. Quirrell was standing over you, Harry. Then he unwrapped his turban and there was a face on the back of his head. It was unhuman, disgusting. It was _evil_.”

Hermione and Ron stared at him.

“Okay, mate. You’re saying… you _dreamed_ everything that happened to us?”

“On that night,” Tim said, nodding numbly, “I went to bed early and I woke up feeling… feeling like I _knew_ something was wrong.”

“Like a premonition,” Hermione said, frowning. “That’s impossible.”

“Well,” Ron shrugged, “my great aunt Bertha always claimed she was a seer. We all thought she was a bit cracked, but, I mean, theoretically?” 

“That’s ridiculous, you can’t tell the future!” Hermione protested. “Harry, surely you agree. You’re muggle-raised.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t believe in magic,” Harry said with a wink. It broke Tim out of his shocked stupor enough to give a surprised laugh.

Hermione turned red and sputtered, “That’s not what I meant! It’s just _logistically_ impossible to see the future, because once you see it, it changes, doesn’t it? It’s a paradox!”

“Well, maybe the future didn’t change because Tim didn’t do anything?”

Hermione looked like she wanted to object, but Tim interrupted with a pensive expression, “They teach Divination at Hogwarts. I’ll be taking it as an elective this Year. I know, Hermione,” he said quickly when she opened her mouth to interject, “I was dubious too. I mean, I still am— telling the future does sound like bullshit, but… well, Harry’s right; _magic_ exists, maybe there’s a method behind the madness. A… a method to seeing the future?”

Hermione crossed her arms huffily, but she didn’t object. Harry and Ron shrugged at each other, resolving to stay out of the argument. They knew from experience it was best not to get between Tim and Hermione when they were talking academics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brain: ... don't do it.  
> me: MR WEASLEY GOES NOICE  
> brain: ::sigh:: why do i even try with this dumbass
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter!! Took a little while to come out and I'm sorry to say that will become pretty commonplace. As school starts for Tim again, so it does for me. I hope to be able to update at least once every couple of weeks, but we'll see how it goes. Thank you for your patience! Stay safe and good luck with whatever you have to do, be it school or anything else.


	21. Making An Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim arrives at Hogwarts and proceeds to put it on its head.

Returning to Hogwarts, Tim knew he had only one option: make an impression.

He was being thrust into an already established hierarchy. He was at a distinct disadvantage, knowing no one, and no one knowing him.

Tim didn’t like throwing his weight around; power plays were tedious and generally a waste of time that could’ve been otherwise been used for more productive things. So entering his new dormroom, he didn’t immediately start off by telling each of the occupants which of their secrets he knew. He started by demonstrating the traditional pureblood manners he’d read up on throughout the summer.

He had intentionally entered the room last. The rest of the boys were already inside. They stared at him with blank faces and sharp eyes as he stood just beyond the threshold.

Tim nodded his head towards the one in the far-right corner— Amadou Kama. Pureblood from a French wizarding family of Senegalese descent. From all the information Tim had gathered on this Year’s students, he was leading the hierarchy, his spot only possibly contended by Elizabeth Gage— but the occupant of the leading position would probably be established throughout the year.

Meaning this was the key time for Tim to insert himself.

“Heir Drake, of non-magical House Drake,” he introduced himself. He met Kama’s gaze. The Slytherin was tall and leanly muscled with dark, steely eyes. He inspected Tim for a long moment— nobody in the dormroom moved. Tim stood still and confident, but not overbearing; respectful but unintimidated; posture drilled into him as a young boy from an important family meeting other important people.

Finally, Kama gave a miniscule inclination of his head. The proper response would have been “well met” and his own introduction, as Percy had explained to Tim over the summer (he was the only Weasley that took pureblood manners in any way seriously). It was an intentional slight— but not as bad as it could have been. Tim took it as a win.

#

The following days, Tim spent on constant alert. He warded his bed to the nines, and developed habits like waking up before the rest of his peers to get breakfast undisturbed, always looking over his shoulder and constantly keeping his wand up his sleeve; ready to slide into his hand at a moment’s notice. 

The spell _Clypeom_ became his most useful tool. He’d discovered it in a book, _A History of Defensive Magic_ , detailing obscure charms that had gone out of style throughout the years. _Clypeom_ was the prototype of the shield charm _Protego_ ; it created a bubble-like shield over the tip of the caster’s wand. The reason it had gone out of style was its impracticality; the shield was a couple of centimeters in diameter. Meaning, to deflect spells, Tim had to literally bat them away with the tip of his wand.

Tim did not possess the accuracy or coordination this necessitated. Most times he tried the spell, he ended up getting hexed anyways, and laughed at on top of that. But it was his best option, because it required the least amount of magical power, and as it turned out in the course of his first few days of classes, Tim had _none to spare._

He had never felt more exhausted than in those first days. The difference in magical power required in Third Year spells compared to what he’d been used to was nothing to overlook— had Tim not spent so much time meditating and strengthening his core, he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

He found even drawing shielding runes on himself was too magically draining in the long run, when every drop of his power was devoted to mastering spells in his classes. 

Consequently, he spent a lot of time in secret and/or out of the way passageways (usefully picked up from following Fred and George, and his own scouting back when programming his robot) to avoid his Housemates. 

He also tracked down Michael Corner, who he’d been in tentative communication with over physics and other things muggle— he hoped this request too, would appeal to him.

“You want to play table tennis?” Michael asked, bewildered. He looked Tim up and down, most likely noting how haggard he appeared. “Is everything all right? You look a little… tired.”

“Some upper year cast an itching hex on me and I spent half the night trying to find a counter,” Tim said honestly, because Michael was right about him being tired, and being tired meant Tim had no filter. “Even worse, I’m running on only two cups of coffee and I think if I try to cast another spell, I will turn into jelly.”

“Into jelly,” Michael said dubiously, giving Tim another concerned once-over. “You, um, found the countercurse, right? You’re kind of twitchy.”

“And covered the assailant’s clothes and sheets with itching powder,” Tim concluded with a dark little smile. “He’ll be surprised to notice it’s not a spell and therefore _has_ no countercurse.”

“Uh…” said Michael, “okay. Let’s, um, play ping pong then. You have a spot?”

Tim lead him into an abandoned classroom. “If you transfigure one of these desks into something resembling a ping pong table, we’ll be good to go,” he said. 

He drew a wobbly line through the middle to serve as a ‘net’ and handed him one of the rackets he’d ordered via his usual way of smuggling things into the castle. They played for several hours. Neither was particularly good, but where Michael might have felt discouraged, Tim glaring laser eyes and also looking ready to throw hands (or collapse), kept him at the table. They ended up both having fun.

Tim brought the Golden Trio and Michael some of his Ravenclaw friends the next time. It turned out that Terry Boot had played on a competitive team as a child. He was delighted by the arrangement. “You have that Favor Service, don’t you?” he said. “If you somehow get a real table into the castle, I’ll pay you five Galleons _and_ I’ll have you beating the rest of these losers in no time.”

Tim gave him a sharp-edged smile. “Done.”

In the following days, Amber delivered several packages: parts of several IKEA ping pong tables that Tim meticulously set up in the abandoned classroom. This addition promptly lead to many more—apparently, Terry Boot was a giant bigmouth and somehow rallied half the muggleborns who’d made use of the Favor Service to come play table tennis… and they all decided to stay.

When Tim realized how many people were starting to frequent the room; sports fans (several, to Tim’s consternation, asking if he could set up a basketball court— how did they actually think he was going to get a ten-foot basketball hoop into the castle? Tim cursed himself for getting intrigued by the puzzle), Ravenclaw muggleborns who set up a study corner with beanbags they’d gotten him to order after all their attempts at Transfiguration had gone wrong (he’d had to borrow several of the school owls to help Amber transport those— she hadn’t been happy about that), others who just wanted a spot to blast Cardi B’s Invasion of Privacy as loud as possible (Tim had had to employ a _lot_ of sound and privacy wards to keep it from becoming an _actual_ invasion of privacy); he also realized what a risk an unprotected, always-open room posed. 

So Tim set up the strongest wards around the room as he could, and a password system. As the person who’d first found the room, the unofficial rights to it remained his, although he couldn’t bear to turn anyone out, so he gave them all the password. “Just don’t go spreading it around,” he warned. “We don’t want a teacher finding out— because I haven’t been granted permission to use this room— or the wrong sort of pureblood finding the perfect incitement to go around firing hexes.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Hermione objected, but Tim shook his head.

“The older ones are more vicious,” he said, and she saw good sense and dropped the subject.

“We’re not now excluding purebloods, are we?” asked Terry Boot with a frown.

“Of course not,” Tim said, nodding at Anthony Goldstein and at Ron, the only two purebloods amongst the ragtag group. “Just keep it low-key, if you know what I mean.”

“Those were impressive wards, Tim,” one of the other Ravenclaws said, “join our study group, won’t you?”

“You mean officially?” Tim asked with a grin, because he already spent almost all of his time in the room. “Sure.” He saw Hermione looking constipated and, guessing the reason why correctly, beckoned her to join as well.

Although it evolved into something Tim had in no way foreseen, the table tennis (and Terry’s rather brutal training style) fulfilled its duty; after several weeks, Tim found himself much more adept at batting hexes away with _Clypeom_. A little aim even had him deflecting spells back at the casters themselves.

Tim was grimly satisfied. And for those he _wasn’t_ quick enough to deflect, he planned other things. Itching powder in clothes, jalapeño residue on pillowcases. Only possible for those whose wards on their beds and trunks he could undo— which was most of the Third Years, and some of the Fourth Years. (Bill would’ve been surprised how quickly his lessons on wardbreaking had received practical application.)

He used muggle means of pranking/causing moderate harm out of both necessity and the fact most purebloods couldn’t figure out ways to counter them— and it quickly gave him a reputation as someone willing to fight dirty. Seeing a classmate struggling with some sort of malicious affliction; rashes, burning eyes, emitting an awful odor (attributed to a potion out of hydrogen sulfide Tim had made) or malfunctioning spells (Fred and George’s suggestion had led to Tim melting Adversium down and smearing it over his (irritating) classmates’ wands); quickly became a way to identify the latest person to mess with Tim.

He couldn’t find ways to get back at the upper years with more advanced wards, but the others quickly learned to be wary. More than once, Tim caught Kama, who so far had not made any overt moves yet, watching him carefully.

It helped that, although struggling in Charms and Transfiguration (Defense might have been a challenge, but their new teacher was a joke), he yet again topped the Year in a majority of the theoretical subjects; Potions, and now Runes and Arithmancy. He received an enormous influx of clients asking for homework help and tutoring, especially in the latter two subjects, where the teaching Professors, thrilled by how advanced he was, had him working on assignments they gave to older years.

Draining as his first months at Hogwarts were, Tim was happy to be back. There were more people gunning for him, but somehow, there were also more people on his side than before. And he’d never learned, nor advanced, so much so quickly. It was true that he’d been bored in the majority of his First Year classes, and would’ve been so in Second Year too. Despite the tedium of constantly having to monitor and conserve his magical reserves lest he drain too much, he was happy to be challenged.

Now if only he could figure out what the deal with Divination was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to (second) Third Year, baby! 🥳🥳


	22. In Retrospect...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim + Divination = A Problem

The Divination classroom was the strangest-looking one Tim had ever seen— in fact, it looked more like a cross between someone’s attic and an old-fashioned tea shop than an actual classroom.

Tim sat down next to Mariette Alderton, a half-blood Slytherin, and Marcus Belby, a half-blood Ravenclaw, at one of the numerous cramped tables in the room. He subtly adjusted the collar of his robes— with all the windows draped in dark curtains and the fire giving off a heavy, sickly sort of perfume, it was stiflingly warm.

A soft, misty voice suddenly came from the shadows. “Welcome,” it said. “Nice to see you in the physical world at last.”

Professor Trelawney moved into the firelight. She was thin, with large glasses magnifying her eyes, and draped in a gauzy spangled shawl. “So you have decided to study Divination, the most difficult of all magical arts,” she said, delicately rearranging her shawl. “I must warn you that if you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be able to teach you. Books can only take you so far in this field…”

Tim frowned and raised his hand. Professor Trelawney, seeming startled to have been posed a question, gestured at him to proceed, then did a double take. She stared at Tim with wide eyes, which behind her glasses, were comically large. “Your name?” she asked faintly.

“Tim Drake, Professor,” Tim said. “How can it be determined whether one possesses the Sight?”

Professor Trelawney was still staring at him, looking perturbed. “Well… that is something you will be discovering in my lessons… it quickly becomes apparent, you see, who has been granted the Gift and who hasn’t…”

Reluctantly, she wrenched her gaze from him. “We will be covering the basic methods of Divination this year. The first term will be devoted to reading the tea leaves. Next term we shall progress to palmistry.” Looking troubled, she scanned the silent class. Again, her eyes fell on Tim and she frowned. With a shake of her head, she continued, “In the second term, we shall progress to the crystal ball. And around Easter, one of our number will leave us forever.”

Another tense silence. Tim wondered if these sorts of proclamations were usually met with awe or shock in the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff classes. All he could think was that if Divination depended on an ability unobtainable by outside influence, it seemed stupid to teach a class on it.

Trelawney instructed them to begin reading the tea leaves. Tim paired up with Belby.

He swirled the dregs of tea around in his cup and scrutinized them. “This doesn’t look like much,” Tim said dubiously, making a face.

Belby looked at his own. “Well, this could maybe be like… a cross?” He consulted the coursebook _Unfogging the Future_. “That means ‘trials and suffering’… uh…”

“Sounds like exam season,” Tim said mildly. Belby laughed.

“All right, this sort of looks like an acorn… windfall, unexpected gold it says, that’s positive? But from this side it looks more like a leaf… discovery, breakthrough.”

Tim hummed. He caught Trelawney eyeing him from the other side of the room. She was making her way through the pairs, giving insight on their predictions. She avoided him the entire class.

Decisively, he stuck his hand into the air. It wasn’t something he often did; Tim avoided attention whenever he could. Now he watched with narrowed eyes as Trelawney did her best to pretend she couldn’t see him.

Finally, as she had already inspected all other pairs and could no longer stand nervously at the front of the class, she approached him. “Yes, Mr. Drake?”

“Would you say there are differences between Divination and fortunetelling, Professor?” he asked, arranging his expression into that of curiosityand earnesty. “I see the curriculum will be covering methods usually attributed to the latter… it’s practiced by Muggles too, interestingly. If the legitimacy of this method depends on the Sight, which most of us most likely do not have and which manifests itself in different forms than so-called ‘fortune telling’— according to what I’ve read of course, then how is our practice any more accurate than that of the Muggles?”

Tim kept his face open and cheerful while distaste bled onto the Professor’s. “Forgive me for saying,” she bit out in a trembling voice, “but whatever Gifts may or may not have been undeservedly bestowed upon you are inhibited by such a small-minded perspective.”

Tim, who had purposefully riled her up was more curious than offended. Professor Trelawney had something against him, he was sure, and that almost the first second he’d opened his mouth. He was most interested to know why.

#

“That was ballsy of you, questioning a teacher like that,” Mariette Alderton said, casually sidling up to him on the way down from the Divination tower.

He cast her a wary glance. She’d been very quick to steer clear of him when it had been time to pair up— as a Slytherin halfblood, her position was precarious enough she probably didn’t want to be seen with him. But provoking Trelawney had been a statement; earning half the class’s scorn, and the other half’s grudging respect.

Alderton was one of Kama’s. Tim had it on good authority that Kama was friends with many of the Third Year Ravenclaws; his crowd was more liable to appreciate questioning and criticality of the mystique. Unlike Elizabeth Gage— Kama’s main contender for the spot of Year leader. She and her faction sent Tim scathing looks, furious at being compared in any way to muggles.

Solely on behalf of their ideological differences, Tim was more inclined to side with Kama when it came to their power struggle. Then there was also the fact that Gage wasn’t even close to covert in her attempts to bully him, whereas Kama, while putting no stop to his friends’ torment, had yet to inflict any himself. Kama watched, he evaluated. He was testing Tim. 

“You’ll notice she had no answer to my question,” Tim said.

Alderton hummed in confirmation. They split up at the bottom of the tower.

#

After an anticlimatic first week of Divination classes, Tim ranted to his friends. They were lounging in beanbags in the abandoned classroom, now dubbed ‘the Wardrobe’ by some Narnia fan. (It was not a very imposing name, but Tim resigned himself to using it— and all the closet jokes that followed).

“That sucks, mate,” Ron mumbled through a mouthful of popcorn. “Tough luck finding out if you’re some super blessed Seer when all you do is drink tea…”

“Well, according to what I’ve read, true Seers can’t control what they See,” said Hermione matter of factly. “There are ways to hone the craft, but in the end, the future is vague and dislikes to be revealed.”

They were quiet for a moment, only Terry Boot enthusiastically shouting over by the ping pong tables breaking the silence. Finally Tim said in a hushed voice, almost desperate, “I know it’s implausible, but I really swear I saw—”

“Hey,” Hermione cut him off with a hand on his shoulder, “We believe you, all right? If you say you dreamt of what happened then you must have. We’ve learned our lesson about doubting you, after all.” She gave him a nervous smile.

Tim returned it, relieved. He shook his head. “Divination at school’s obviously a fluke, and even with this apparent ‘vision’ I had… well, it might not even have anything to do with Divination. Maybe there’s some other explanation. Telepathy— who knows. I think… for now, there’s nothing I can do but wait in case it happens again.”

“Tell us when it does,” Hermione said firmly. “We’ll figure it out.”

Tim agreed, and decided to put Divination out of his mind and worries for the time being.

In retrospect, that turned out to be a mistake.


	23. Profits Of Technological Advancement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim checks off things on his To Do List.

There were three things on Tim’s To Do List.

  1. Make some sort of arrangement with Kama. Having the other Slytherin vouch for him would be a deterrent to bullies, and he had his own assets to offer— things like dirt on Elizabeth Gage’s people, or access to secret passages in the castle… Tim was certain he and Kama could come up with a mutually beneficial arrangement, if only they could progress past the cautious, feeling each other out phase… he was surprised it was taking so long. Why hadn’t Kama approached him yet? The Third Year had many halfblood acquaintances and a majority of their Year’s Ravenclaws as close friends, so Tim didn’t think it was his blood status keeping him at arm’s length. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.
  2. Speak with Snape about _Project Make Blood Magick Less Icky._ He had to figure out how to substitute blood for other DNA samples in the ritual he’d chosen, and then how to approach Theo Nott about it.
  3. Blaise Zabini. Discover what he was playing at, or/and ensure his silence.



  
Tim had yet to interact with Zabini since he’d had revealed his knowledge of Tim’s listening bugs. Over the summer, Zabini had sent him a very confusing letter, which only cast further doubt over his loyalties and motivations. Tim hadn’t responded, uncertain of his ability to gage what his former Yearmate was playing at through text. But putting a confrontation off forever was impossible. 

And as it turned out, Zabini decided to take matters of a confrontation into his own hands.

He approached Tim in the corridor outside the Charms classroom. “Drake,” he greeted pleasantly, “fancy seeing you here.”

“Right,” Tim said, because running into Zabini here meant he’d studied Tim’s schedule beforehand.

Deftly, the boy inserted himself next to Tim, matching his pace. “Congratulations,” he said, “on getting Draco in a right tizzy.”

“That might just be his natural disposition.”

Zabini grinned. “No. He’s baffled that you haven’t ended up in the Hospital Wing yet, either by nervous breakdown or magical exhaustion. He was hoping to gloat over your bedside, you see.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint him,” Tim said drily.

“Well, I’m not. It’s been awfully entertaining, watching him get taken down a few pegs.” He steered them off the main path and into a side corridor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little metal chip— Tim recognized it as one of his prototype listening devices, the ones he’d made before using invisible ink. He steeled himself for the conversation they were about to have; he’d need all his wits and Drake composure for it.

“Did you notice it go missing?” Zabini asked.

“No, actually,” Tim said, gritting his teeth. He could really hit himself for his carelessness— if he’d noticed its absence early enough, this situation could have been avoided. But he’d stopped keeping track of the prototype bugs when he’d created the newer and much more useful second draft.

“Hmm.. funny, considering I always took you for someone hypervigilant. It took me a while to figure the runes out, and the whole time I was afraid you’d realize and pay me back for the theft…” Zabini gave him a scrutinizing look. “You have new ones, don’t you?” he wagered. “You’ve replaced the old with a better version.”

For the second time, Tim was taken aback by the other Slytherin’s astuteness. He rapidly refiled him from ‘sharp’ to ‘impressively sharp’ in his mind. 

His silence must have been answer enough, because Zabini broke out in a sly grin. “Call me Blaise,” he said without warning, repocketing the bug. “Since I’ll be keeping your little invention. It’s mad useful.”

Tim blinked. All right. That was a statement: he had no blackmail to fear from Zabini— Blaise?— considering his blatant admission of the same ‘crime’. Offering his first name was unexpected though; was he trying to extend an olive branch? Gain an alliance? 

Well, either way, Tim couldn’t afford to go around rejecting potential support no matter the motives, and neither did he want to— Zabini was sharp as a tack and Tim found himself liking the other boy despite his reservations…

“Then I must insist you call me Tim,” he said, in line with Percy’s tutorial on proper pureblood etiquette. “As we’re sharing in the profits of technological advancement.”

“Speaking of things we share,” Zabini— Blaise, said. He resumed his pace and Tim followed. “I did a little digging… the Drakes are quite affluent, aren’t they? Your name is just as influential as mine in the muggle world.”

Tim raised his brows. “You did some digging? Information on my family name isn’t available through Wizarding means. I’m curious how you got it.”

“A little spell called… what was it again? Ah, right; _Google_.”

“I didn’t expect you to know that… spell.”

“My family is well-educated. We covet knowledge of any kind.”

His _family_? So this wasn’t just about Blaise. The Zabinis were famously neutral, Tim recalled. And their main residence was in Italy, which might spare them from British type secularism and blood politics. Blaise didn’t advertise any tolerance he might have, so it was tricky to gauge how much he actually possessed. He truly lived by his family’s neutral reputation; never propagating blood prejudice, but never standing against it either.

There might be reason for that beyond what Tim could tell. He was, after all, still pretty ignorant when it came to the deeper, subtler workings of Wizarding society. One thing was clear: Blaise was someone to keep an eye on. 

“You’re right about us being similar, then,” Tim said carefully. 

“Knowledge of any kind, hm?”

“There’s nothing wrong with knowing.”

“Some would disagree. Having knowledge enables you to misuse it, they’d say.”

They were now talking about Dark and other illegal magics. “So does possession of anything else,” Tim said. “If, for example, the government wanted to eliminate the usage of malicious magic, the only way to do so would be to get rid of the tool by which it is possible: the wand. But then they would also be banning all the beneficial, good magic possible. Abolishing the potential for bad abolishes the potential for good, meaning it’s not about getting rid of potential— it’s about teaching people to choose the right one to realize.”

“Well.” They’d reached the History of Magic classroom. The rest of the Slytherin Third Years were already waiting outside. Several cast sharp looks at Blaise, who was looking casual and unconcerned at Tim’s side. “That was a riveting speech… if I wasn’t inclined never to question the government, I might just agree.”

Tim knew ‘never questioning the government’ prevailed only where you could be heard doing it. He thought he and Blaise would get along just fine.

#

It was impossible to stay tentative allies with Blaise.

Not when they were so similar, and got along like a house on fire.

Barely a week, and they’d graduated firmly into ‘friend’ territory— impressive, considering they were both Slytherins and both keeping about a hundred secrets from each other.

(In Tim’s defense: since he’d made it his business to know _everyone’s_ secrets, it wasn’t like he was keeping them just from Blaise.)

Sure, they had their differences. Potentially major ones, in fact— Blaise might actually be very opinionated, but he’d never do anything to leave his comfortable neutral bubble and stand up for those opinions. While Tim, not confrontational but nevertheless quick to action, kept a blacklist of every person caught using the ‘Mudblood’ slur— then hexed them to have ‘bigot’ written in angry red pimples across their face.

They were aware of this too. It might be a point of contention in the future, but for now, they were too invested in making the brand new friendship work. So they did their best to avoid any sensitive situations where moral differences might force them to choose sides.

(Because neutrality was a side, Tim thought. Choosing to do nothing would always be a side.)

It was on a Tuesday afternoon when he brought Blaise to the Wardrobe. They stood outside the unassuming door, Tim nervously wringing his hands— Harry, Ron and Hermione were inside, waiting for him to introduce Blaise. They were skeptical, and all Tim wanted was for them to get along.

“It doesn’t look like much,” said Blaise, because it didn’t, at least not from the outside.

Indiscernible to his eyes were the runes upon runes covering the doorframe in invisible ink; he wasn’t even aware of it, but had Tim not given him the password, he wouldn’t even be _seeing_ the door.

“Come on,” he said, finally getting his nerves under control. His friends would get along if only because they all had something in common; the fact that he liked them. At least… that’s what he tried to convince himself.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were sprawled across the beanbags in their usual corner of the room. There was no one at the ping pong tables. A small miracle, as Tim hadn’t been sure if Terry Boot ever left. Someone had hung up a hammock ( _Ah, so that’s what they wanted it for_ , Tim thought) and there were a couple people brewing potions in the ‘lab’ corner.

Blaise took this all in with narrowed eyes. The study group, huddled together on the ground with papers scattered across the floor. The lab, the tables, the speaker system installed on the walls, courtesy of Tim’s new favorite thing in the entire world; Adversium. And the Golden Trio, watching them approach suspiciously.

Blaise and Tim sat down across from them. “Hey guys,” Tim chirped nervously. He introduced Blaise. He told them about the bugs, earning at least Hermione’s approval (anything and anyone related to the pursuit of knowledge would) and Harry seemed willing to believe in Blaise’s goodwill after he told a few hilarious anecdotes about his mishaps in the muggle world (“How was I supposed to know the sign with the dress meant ‘ladies’? All wizards wear robes!”). Tim admired Blaise’s effortless charm.

Ron, though. Ron was wary. Tim was despairing over what could be done to gain his favor, but luckily, Blaise was nothing if not a sharp Slytherin. “Hey, is that your chessboard?” he asked, catching sight of the unfinished game. From the look of it, Hermione was being trounced again.

“What about it?” Ron asked, mistrustful.

“Do you play?”

“Do I—? Of course I play!”

“Let’s do it then,” said Blaise.

_Oh, perfect_ , thought Tim. Blaise was good at chess, although not Ron-caliber. The only person who could keep up with and _win_ against Ron was Tim himself. Lucky for Blaise that he had Tim on his side then.

Throughout the course of the game, Tim passed him two notes. He was pretty sure Harry noticed, but he just suppressed a laugh and mimed zipping his lips shut. 

Blaise eked out a narrow victory. With Tim’s notes hidden up his sleeve, he grinned victoriously at a fuming Ron. “Rematch?” he asked cheekily.

Ron took him up on it.

#

Tim would say number three on his last had gone rather successfully. Very successfully, in fact, he thought whenever catching sight of Blaise and Ron talking animatedly in the halls. 

Blaise hadn’t managed any more ‘lucky’ wins in chess, but the game had been to Ron like a good book to Hermione: the surest way to his heart. He took a liking to the Slytherin. Blaise was a better and more willing opponent than Hermione, and could relate to the experiences of someone wizard-raised on top of that. It wasn’t like Ron was missing this particularly, but it was nice to have.

Tim turned his attention to number two: Project Make Blood Magick Less Icky.

His friends shot him questioning looks when he lingered behind in Snape’s classroom after Potions. Blaise caught Tim’s eye and his meaningful look. He nodded, ushering the Golden Trio out and leaving him alone with the dour Professor.

“Is there a reason you’re taking up more of my time, Mr. Drake?” Snape hissed.

“I had a question, sir,” Tim said, “about Potions.”

“A _question_. And you couldn’t open a book?”

“I couldn’t find the right one, sir.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Very well,” he said finally, “ask. Do _not_ ,” he then added, cutting Tim off as he was about to start, “waste my time.”

All right. Tim shut his mouth then opened it again— why couldn’t Snape keep his dramatics within normal human levels? Although… in his billowing black clothing, he did kind of remind Tim of a large, ugly bat. Maybe it was just part of the theme— Tim could think of another, notoriously dramatic bat guy, after all. Perhaps it was a side effect of all the black clothing.

“I’ve made some notes,” he explained, cautiously placing the stack of papers on Snape’s desk. “It’s about using genetic material to create a binding agent in, um, type four rituals.”

Snape’s hand, hovering over the papers, paused. “Type four rituals,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice, “are illegal.”

“Of course. This is all theoretical. Just, if you could use genetic material, DNA, from, for example, strands of hair, it would eliminate the need for a class seven binding agent. Instead, you’d only need one of class four. And those are legal.” *

“Barely,” said Snape. He cast Tim an assessing look. “The law is very dependent on context and circumstance. It’s all about intention. The fact that you use a type four binding agent doesn’t matter if you use it for Dark Magic— it’s still illegal. It’s all about intention, like I said… so, as this is all _theoretical_ , I’ll take a look.”

_Damn_ , Tim thought. _I love Slytherins._

He stood still and patient as Snape put on a pair of reading glasses and scrutinized the papers. They were covered in messy calculations— Tim had tried to highlight the most significant places so as to make it easier to read. It was still a giant jungle of graphite though, so it took Snape nearly half an hour to get through it all.

Finally, he set the papers down. Tim waited nervously for the verdict. He’d kept information on the actual ritual he was trying to modify vague, but he was sure Snape could read between the lines and figure it out. Now it was just a question of how true those rumors were about Snape being a lover of the Dark Arts— would he call Tim out on it?

“You made several mistakes here,” was all the Professor said, and then he got out a pot of red ink and started drowning the paper with it.

He kept up a running commentary— “… and you overlook the fact that, as a class seven binding agent, blood includes life energy and you _need_ life energy to power this type of ritual because you are trying to exact outside control over exactly that, altering the physical state of a person, whether by healing or by injuring them, means influencing their life energy… you’ll learn about links and bindings in Fourth Year Runes… although, of course I encourage taking an interest in more advanced topics, that’s why I support the _theoretical_ pursuit of this project… look here…”

Eventually Tim had to stand right next to Snape’s shoulder to peer at what he was writing, and eventually he summoned his own notepad to take notes and bounce rapid fire questions off Snape.

“But if you added valerian root and mixed three times clockwise…”

“No, you dunderhead, valerian root has sedating properties and it would counteract the Angel’s Trumpet.”

“Get rid of the Angel’s Trumpet then—”

“You can’t just get rid of ingredients when you don’t like them—!”

“Get rid of it and replace it with acromantula venom instead; it has the same corrosive, poisonous effect but its ionic strength is comparable to that of valerian, preventing diffusion that would mitigate the effects of valerian root.”

“… that might work.”

They went on like this for more than an hour, then Tim noticed the time and squeaked. “I have Transfiguration now, sir, Professor McGonagall will be angry I’m late—”

Snape roused himself from where he had been completely immersed in a line of calculations, then squinted. “Ah,” he said finally. 

Tim had never seen the Professor so disoriented and had to suppress a smile. “Right,” Snape said. He tore off a piece of parchment and scribbled out a note. “A tardy slip. Get to class, Mr. Drake. You can return afterwards to collect your papers.”

Tim nodded gratefully and scurried out. McGonagall was surprised when she spied the signature on his slip, but let him get to his seat without comment. Tim couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. He absentmindedly took notes, all while his mind raced with ideas.

He might just solve this problem sooner than expected. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Ministry of Magic classifies binding agents in rituals as follwoing:
> 
> Binding agents are the tool needed to transfer intent into reality. The higher the class of binding agent, the more potent the ritual. Each ritual requiring a certain class of binding agent also requires the type before, and one more, e.g. ritual using class 5 also requires class 4, and either class 1, 2 or 3. 
> 
> Class I. Meditation  
> Class II. Chants  
> Class III. Runes  
> Class IV Symbolism (e.g. the branch from this tree symbolizes the entire tree)  
> Class V. Proxies (e.g. whatever damage I inflict upon this ring is inflicted upon its owner --> ring is 'proxy')  
> Class VI. Sacrifices. (can be anything from a lock of hair, a thesis dissertation ('sacrificing knowledge') to the person you love most)  
> Class VII. Life energy (blood or magic)
> 
> Classification by potency of ritual:  
> Class I-II: Type one ritual  
> Class III-IV: Type two ritual  
> Class V-VI: Type three ritual  
> Class VII: Type four ritual
> 
> (So, Tim's ritual is a type four because it requires blood. For the exact ritual, see chap. 19)
> 
> AHHH GUYS this is the LAST chapter before the plot plot starts, I'm so excited 🤩
> 
> IMPORTANT: To the first person who answers the following question right, I will send via email a scene from the story that happens in the near future. It is a very significant scene and I am sure you'll be thrilled to read it beforehand ;))
> 
> The question: why do you think it's taking Amadou Kama so long to approach Tim?
> 
> To recap the facts of the case:  
> \- Kama has never openly shown hostility towards Tim  
> \- Kama is friends with many halfbloods and doesn't seem to follow blood prejudice  
> \- he is vying for top spot in his Year  
> \- Tim is surprised he hasn't been approached because he thinks Kama would try to secure as many assets as possible
> 
> So why is he keeping away??
> 
> Anyways, can't wait to see you next chapter when things start ramping up!! Love you and thanks for the support ♡


	24. Kicking Danger In The Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim comes late to Divination. And then shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who tried to guess what's up with Kama! 
> 
> The answer: he sees Tim as a threat. Nobody expected much from the muggleborn supposed-to-be-Second-Year except someone to push around, so when Tim immediately fought back, and _effectively_ too, their expectations were turned on their heads. Kama's like: wtf... he made that guy's spells misfire... he gave that guy pimples that spell 'dickwad' across his forehead... i am SO not getting anywhere near that kid
> 
> Plus on the other hand, Kama's vying for top spot in their Year, and here comes Tim with _maybe_ the potential to challenge him (mind you, nobody can figure out how the muggleborn's doing what he's doing so they're prolly kinda terrified).
> 
> So that's the answer, but there were a lot of really great guesses. My fav is that Kama just doesn't like Americans lmao. Ok, without further ado; the chapter!!

For a student consistently at the top of his class, you’d be surprised how often Tim came late.

In First Year it had mostly been because he’d overslept pulling an all-nighter, researching some obscure topic, or he was lost in his own projects and couldn’t bother to be punctual. Now, with the more challenging curriculum enough incentive to be on time, the reason was usually that he’d had to use the long way to class so as to avoid Elizabeth Gage and her lackeys. 

Either way, Monday, the 26th of October found him running late again, this time with Harry and Ron in tow.

“So many stairs!” Tim bemoaned. “Whose idea was it to make us take Divination in a fucking tower? Just so I can have a heat stroke in the classroom because Trelawney never learned to put out her fireplace!”

His companions might’ve replied something from where they were stumbling after him, but they were panting altogether too noisily for it to be heard.

The trio reached the landing. Harry and Ron had Charms just a couple of hallways down, but Tim still had to get to the North Tower.

Suddenly, the footsteps behind him cut off. Tim heard a muffled thump and then Ron’s groan as he hit the floor. He turned around. Harry had frozen in place, head cocked and eyes wide. Ron was rubbing his elbow, sitting in a disgruntled heap from where he’d bumped into Harry’s back and fallen.

“Harry?” Tim asked, because the boy still hadn’t moved.

“Oh, great,” grumbled Ron, “what am I— décor?”

Harry had gone pale. Immediately, Tim was by his side, tugging Ron to his feet, the tip of a switchblade peeking out from under his sleeve. “What is it?” he asked, eyes darting back and forth rapidly.

“Don’t… don’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That voice… it says ‘I want to rip, tear, kill’…” Suddenly rushing down the hall, he said, “It’s going this way!”

Mystified, Tim and Ron stumbled after him. The corridor came to a dead end. Harry came to another abrupt stop. Ron would’ve been bowled over yet again, had Tim not caught him.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Harry said faintly. “I can still hear it continuing… you hear it, right? The voice?”

“Mate,” gasped Ron, “the only thing I can hear is my own bloody breath.”

Tim shook his head. “All I heard was a faint rumbling, like water through pipes. But I hear that all the time. No voice.”

“But—” Harry spluttered. “I swear there was—!”

“Hey,” Tim said softly, “we believe you. Tell us what you heard.”

“I could hear it moving down the corridor, and it kept repeating ‘rip, tear, kill’… d’you think it's like a phantom or something? That’s why it can go through walls?”

“A phantom,” Ron repeated, looking nervous. “It’s incorporeal then, right? It can’t like, _actually_ rip, tear and kill…”

“Well, for a maleficent phantom, it sure ignored us convincingly.” Tim ran his hand over the wall thoughtfully. “Of course, another way to pass through walls… is to be inside of them.”

“Inside the walls?”

“It could be travelling through the pipes. It needn’t even be a phantom in that case.”

Ron gulped. “That’s not particularly reassuring.”

“But it’s a good idea,” said Harry, sounding impressed. “I would’ve never thought of that.”

Tim shrugged. “In Gotham, we have a giant cannibalistic crocodile man who lives in the sewers and eats people. The first place you check when someone disappears is the plumbing.”

A momentary silence. “So do you have to like,” said Ron slowly, “keep an eye on the loo when you’re, uh…”

“Oh, no, don’t worry,” Tim laughed, “he wouldn’t fit. He’s really huge. You can go pee without worrying about Killer Croc jumping out of the toilet and eating you— _ha_. Just watch out when you’re passing manhole covers— but you should be doing that anyways. You never know what might come out of them.”

“Cool, cool, cool, cool,” said Ron, nodding, “some day, mate, I swear we’ll get you therapy.”

Tim winced. “About that-…”

“Okay, _nope_ , we don’t want to hear about all the therapists who have actually turned out to be serial killers or whatever else happens in Gotham,” Harry interrupted. “Let’s talk about pipes. They all lead to the bathrooms, right? So we should check there if we want to figure out what it was I heard.”

“Okay, but consider this,” countered Ron, “ _not_ searching for whatever you heard saying ‘rip, kill, tear’. Tim, back me up.”

“We shouldn’t seek it out,” said Tim slowly, “but we need to know what it is so as to protect ourselves.”

“Bloody hell. You couldn’t go back to avoiding danger like last year?”

“I’ve learned that danger is unavoidable,” Tim replied solemnly. “The only way to keep away from it is to kick it in the teeth.”

Ron groaned. “Fine. We’ll search the bathrooms to find hopefully _not_ a giant crocodile man. Now for Merlin’s sake, let’s get to class before it ends.”

#

Tim was twenty minutes late to Divination. One good thing came from Trelawney actively ignoring him ever since the disastrous first lesson— all she did was send him a dirty look when he arrived.

He took his usual seat next to Belby, cringing at the heat permeating from the fireplace. His skin was already sticky and hot from running. Combined with the stuffy air in the classroom, there was no way he could concentrate. Good thing it’d turned out there really wasn’t anything to learn from Trelawney. Or from Divination in general. Whatever that vision had been— it had _nothing_ to do with scrutinizing tea leaves or foggy glass balls.

Gosh! He really should start running regularly again. To imagine, he used to be able to spend hours following Batman and Robin across the rooftops, and now the mere trek to the North Tower winded him. He was so tired… and the overpowering perfume of the classroom made the processors of his brain spark and short circuit… his thoughts ran in lazy, meaningless circles, tuning out the droning of Trelawney’s voice…

He looked outside the open window, desperate for the rapidly cooling October air… he looked over the sprawling grounds and the students in the Care of Magical Creatures class… he really should’ve chosen _that_ instead of Divination… then he was a bird, he was flying…

Clouds streamed beneath him. He was flying too high to be a bird, was he a plane? (Superman?) No, he was _in_ a plane and now he was landing. He was in an airport, feeling grimly determined. Feeling tentatively hopeful. He was searching for something; he was lost, even though bright white lights above him announced he’d just disembarked the plane from Gotham to Ethiopia.

And he’d found it! He’d found what he was looking for— _who_ he was looking for! There was a woman with red hair and a hands worn from decades of helping people. He’d been adrift before, spiraling off-course, now he was found, he was finally where he belonged.

There were tears welling up in Tim’s eyes. So this is what it was like to have a mother who loved you. He was so happy— but still his heart ached, there was something missing…

… and the pain was spreading. His whole body was on fire. Worse, he’d been betrayed when he finally thought he’d found someone to love him— that made everything hurt worse. There was a maniacal voice shrieking in his ear. Suddenly he was looking into a sickly white face.

He saw himself reflected back in the Joker’s crazed green eyes; a boy in a torn red uniform. So much red. In that moment, it was like he was being expelled from his body. Now he watched the scene play out from the outside. Watched as the Joker beat Robin with a crowbar. Watched Jason searching for his mother in the desperate last moments before the bomb blew.

_No!_ Tim tried to scream. He threw himself over Jason, knowing as his limbs passed through him that it wouldn’t be enough. The last second ticked off on the bomb’s timer. Jason closed his eyes, resigned.

The world exploded in fire and shrapnel.

Tim jerked awake, pain blooming across his forehead. He’d fallen forward and crashed his head against the table.

“Tim…?” Belby asked. Whispers and giggles spread through the room. The entire class was staring at him, but their faces blurred together before his eyes. There was only one intelligible thing going through Tim’s mind; an awful, terrifying realization.

Jason Todd was going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hbdhhhdhdhd we're finally here


	25. Remember To Turn On A Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if Tim has ever let someone tell him what to do. He's not about to start now. Not even for Fate.

Jason Todd was _not_ going to die. 

Not if Tim had anything to do about it, and goddammit, he _would_.

He was vacant for the rest of the lessen, stuck in his head. He didn’t notice the mocking looks sent his way, he didn’t even blink and turn his head to see Elizabeth Gage imitating him falling asleep and slamming his head against the table.

A plan was being rapidly assembled in his mind. He had to get out of Hogwarts, get to Ethiopia. He needed a wand whose magic didn’t activate the Trace.

He didn’t know when the vision took place. Last time he’d been shown the events of the Philosopher’s Stone mere hours before they’d happened. How much time did he have before it was too late? Was Jason only now boarding the plane or was he already in the Joker’s hands?

It didn’t matter. All he knew was he had to get to him as soon as possible.

The bell rang. He was the first out of the classroom. The plan was solidified in his mind, it was time to get to work.

#

He hired an owl from the British Postal Service, which had a small magical branch. Mostly they lent owls to Muggle parents. Then he drafted a letter.

  
_Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,_

_I write to you with a matter of utmost importance. Timothy’s uncle, my brother, Eddie Drake, is on his deathbed here in Gotham. The doctor’s give him less than a month until the cancer takes him._

_He is a brave man, who has fought for years with this condition. My wife and I want to give both him and our son the chance to spend some time with each other before the end. The funeral will take place immediately afterwards, as per Jewish tradition. It is imperative that Timothy be present._

_We ask that he be excused from school for up to a month. He will make up for the lessons he misses and turn all missed homework in with minimal delay. We have booked a plane to Gotham for the 28th. He will be picked up from King’s Cross at 11 am._

_Thank you for your understanding._

_Signed,_  
_Jack Drake_

  
There were ways to magically check the legitimacy of signatures. So even though Tim could fake his parents’ flawlessly, he was forced to bleach the top half of his Hogsmeade permission slip and write the letter there. The signature would register as legit. He’d only have a problem if Dumbledore tried to validate the rest of what he’d written.

He was summoned to the Headmaster’s office the same day.

“My condolences, Mr. Drake,” he said seriously. “I reassure you, though you may feel pain, that pain is part of being human.”

Tim, eyes trained on the floor in the picture of vulnerability and despair, whispered, “Thank you, sir.”

“I would never dream of keeping you from a loved one. However, a month _is_ a long time to be missing from school.”

“Not if it’s the last time you have left,” Tim said in a shaky voice. 

“Of course,” Dumbledore agreed, eyes twinkling. It could have been his eyes watering from sympathy, or dysfunctional tear syndrome. “Professor Snape will take you to King’s Cross. Again, I offer my condolences and remember, happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light.”

For some reason, Tim had the abrupt, ridiculous vision (intrusive thought, not foreboding type) of wearing light up sneakers to Dumbledore’s funeral.

He quickly put it out of his mind. He was pretty sure mindreading wasn’t a thing unless if you were some kind of alien, but the way Dumbledore looked into people’s eyes sometimes made him think twice. He should probably look into that, and for now, _think_ _nice, innocent thoughts._

#

“Why’d you get summoned to Dumbledore’s office?” Ron asked him after classes.

Theoretically, Tim really didn’t have the time to talk and lounge around, hence why he hadn’t taken them to the Wardrobe but an uncomfortable broom closet the conversation was bound to stay short and concise in. He needed to tell them the truth, and get it over with quickly, lest they try to change his mind about the Plan. _Project Save Jason._

“And why are we jammed in this broom closet when we could go to the Wardrobe? Also, you weren’t at the place we said we’d meet yesterday. Did you forget we were going to inspect the bathrooms?” Harry asked.

“Tim, the study group meets in ten minutes,” Hermione added, annoyed.

Tim took a deep breath. “I had another dream. Future-telling type.”

Stunned silence. Then a resounding clang as Ron kicked over a bucket.

“Jesus, Ron!” Hermione hissed. “You’re going to alert Filch!”

“Sorry, sorry, it was an accident…Tim! You’re sure it wasn’t a regular dream?”

“Positive. I don’t know what exactly it is about them, but both of these visions… there was no mistaking them for normal dreams. They’re just too real.”

“All right then, what happens?” Hermione asked. She had somehow produced a notebook and quill seemingly from air. (Theoretically possible, although Summoning was Fifth Year material.)

“It’s… a friend of mine,” Tim said, swallowing hard. “Guys, it’s bad. He’s … he’s going to get killed. There’s this lunatic mass murderer in Gotham—”

(Ron mouthed, “Just one?” then felt bad.)

“— and my friend gets kidnapped by him. I had the vision yesterday. I have to get to Ethiopia, where he’s going to die, and save him before it happens. I forged a letter from my parents, asking for a leave absence; I’m going to be ‘visiting my terminally ill Uncle Eddie’. The Headmaster confirmed today and I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

His friends stared at him in shocked silence. 

Then Hermione said faintly, “I… thought you’d been summoned to Professor Dumbledore’s office because they found out about that prank you and the twins pulled on Professor Lockhart…”

Tim smiled humorlessly. “Nope. Still in the clear on that one.”

“Tim,” Ron said tentatively, “don’t you think you should call the… is there a Muggle equivalent of an Auror?”

“The police,” offered Hermione, mirroring Ron’s concern. “Tim, it’s hardly safe to take on a mass murderer alone!”

“The police won’t help,” Tim said, shaking his head. “The vision was vague. All I know is that it takes place in Ethiopia— I’ll need magic to track him down. And Aurors obviously won’t move a muscle if it’s just a Muggle involved.”

“The Trace!” Hermione hissed. 

“I have a way around it,” assured Tim, voice hard. “And I’ll do what’s necessary to save my friend. He _can’t_ die.”

“Woah, mate!” Ron exclaimed, wide eyed. “You have a way around the Trace?”

“In theory. I mean, I _suspect_ it’ll work. If it doesn’t… I’m fucked. But I have to try regardless.”

Ron turned red at the swear. Hermione was nodding seriously. Harry said, “You get one warning off free. That’s how it was with Dobby. So if you don’t get an owl from the Ministry— you’re in the clear. If you do… at least you know.”

“Does your way around the Trace work individually or collectively?” asked Hermione. “If everyone gets one shot and the three of us come with you, you’ll have four spells. Theoretically.”

“Three, actually,” corrected Harry. “I already used up my one-time warning shot. I’m still coming though.”

Tim blinked. Then he fought back a smile. He was most certainly _not_ allowing his friends to come with him, but the fact they were ready to do so made his chest warm. “Thank you,” he told them quietly. “I appreciate it. I really do. But there’s no way all three of you can get permission to leave school by tomorrow.”

Not to mention there was no way he’d take them anywhere near the Joker.

Hermione pursed her lips. “I don’t think you should go alone. You might be getting yourself in just as much danger as your friend, and what about the Statute of Secrecy? You can’t use magic in front of Muggles.”

“I wouldn’t have survived this long with only one trick up my sleeve,” Tim said. “I have the element of surprise on my side, and my brain; it will be enough.”

He met his friends’ dark eyes, knowing they saw the conviction in his own. Their faces revealed apprehension, but their tightly clenched jaws spoke of understanding. Ron squeezed his shoulder and Harry gave him an awkward but earnest pat on the back.

“Be careful, Tim,” he said.

“Call the police when you find him. Don’t take unnecessary risks,” warned Hermione. 

“I’ll be on a time crunch, I don’t know if I _can_ call the police before it’s too late— but I’ll be careful.”

“My entire family would freak if anything happened to you,” Ron told him, “so you better come back without a scratch. And your friend can visit over the summer. Introduce us, yeah?”

Tim smiled, gratitude welling up in his chest. Jason, at the Burrow! What a dream! Of course, he’d first have to exchange more than two words with the boy in the first place, and that in turn required making sure he didn’t get killed.

The moment he beat up that pasty clown he was latching onto Jason and not letting go. If there was one thing he’d learned from Harry, Ron and Hermione, it was that friendships were worth fighting for. He’d spent too long watching Jason from the sidelines— it was time he finally did something for his childhood hero. 

He'd save his life, first and foremost. And then he’d become his friend, if it was the last damn thing he did.

#

He’d told his friends he had a way around the Trace. Technically, that was true. He just needed to extract it.

Draco walked into the Second Year boys’ dorms to find Tim sitting on his bed. Immediately he stiffened, wand snapping into his hand. He’d convinced his father to buy him a holster and practiced for hours in front of the mirror, until he could replicate the smooth movement he’d seen Drake perform. It had been last year, when the now Third Year had threatened him with blackmail. Him! Draco Malfoy! He’d pay him back for that— but what was the mudblood doing in his dorms? 

He’d obviously broken through the wards on his four-poster. Draco clenched his teeth. “Got lost, Drake?” he snapped, both irritated and unnerved. “Is the Third Year curriculum frying your brain? Not that there was much to fry in the first place.”

Drake grinned sharply and hopped to his feet. “Third Year _is_ challenging, but I’m doing pretty well. I suppose I should thank you. I wouldn’t have gotten moved if you hadn’t put in a good word with your father.”

“It was hardly a _good_ word,” scowled Draco. “I was hoping you’d fail.”

“Oh, I know,” Drake said, something very wicked glinting through his eyes. “Still.” He shrugged and it was gone. “Thanks for that. Your father made a good call. And now, sadly, I have something more to ask of you.”

“I’ll do nothing for you!” Draco growled. “In case you don’t remember, your leverage expired with the summer. I no longer have any… _incriminating_ books in my possession. You have nothing to hold over me.” He crossed his arms defiantly.

Drake sighed. “How about this: we exchange. A trade, if you will. You give me something, and I give you something in return.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What could you possibly have that I might want?” Many things; Drake was friends with Harry Potter for one, he excelled at classes, he was respected by teachers and more than that, he had duped both him and his father— but no, in the end Drake was just a mudblood, nothing more, he _couldn’t_ possibly have anything Draco wanted—

“Tutoring, first of all. You’re fifth in your Year, and you’re not happy about it, are you?”

Draco blinked. Then his face crumpled in a scowl. “Listen here—”

“Malfoy,” Drake said, sounding tired. “You’re a Slytherin, aren’t you? You do what’s necessary to get things done. If you want to get better, you need to take the first step and accept outside help.”

“I don’t want any help from you.”

“When will you finally get it?” Drake burst out, losing his temper. “You don’t _really_ hate me— you’re clutching desperately to the illusion of superiority so that you don’t have to admit you’re wrong! Can you please get your head out of your ass for three goddamn seconds and finally realize you’ll be much better off when you stop looking down on others!”

Draco stared, slack-jawed. Nobody had ever lost their temper with him before, not like this. Anger took different forms on people; worn by his father, it made his voice go cold enough to freeze the blood in Draco’s limbs. When his mother got mad, it was visible in the precise sharpness of her movements, overly careful with restrained violence. Nobody had ever looked at Draco with eyes so wild, almost feral in the emotion they brimmed with. No one had ever raised their voice.

Maybe it was shocking enough that the words penetrated through the gauze he’d wrapped around himself. It was impossible that Drake was _better_ than him… but he was good at things that Draco wanted to be good at, and it was just like a Slytherin to exploit others for personal gain…

“Accepted,” Draco decided, “on one condition.”

Drake raised an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“You reveal how you discovered the books last year.”

A grin spread across Drake’s face. “If you agree to a Vow of Secrecy concerning this exchange— done.”

That was a triviality; Draco’s parents had stressed the importance ensuring others’ silence since they’d read him bedtime stories. He swore a simple vow without ado, and Drake mirrored him.

Then, Drake said, “Great. I want to borrow your wand— the one without the Trace.”

Draco froze. “How do you even—” he hissed, then cut himself off with an irritated scowl. “Of course you know about it. But what do you need a Trace-less wand for at Hogwarts?”

“Ah-ah,” Drake clucked, “you didn’t include questions among your conditions. I’m afraid I can’t tell you, but lucky you, I _will_ show you how I found out about it.”

He proceeded to take a wrinkled cloth from his pocket and strolled over to Draco’s trunk.

“What’s that?” Draco sneered.

Drake ignored him. He slid a bobby pin from his hair— he usually had about five on to keep his long bangs from his face— and inserted it into the lock.

Draco watched in confusion as Drake, with an expression of intense concentration and his hands covered in the cloth, carefully jiggled the pin around until the lock clicked. He lifted the lid of the trunk.

“How did you do that?” demanded Draco. “The protections are supposed to detect foreign magical signatures!”

Drake waved the cloth altogether too smugly for Draco’s liking. “It’s saturated with the magic of at least fifty different people. Since the trunk can’t detect a specific one, it doesn’t activate the defense mechanisms.”

He turned to the interior of the trunk like a chef in front of a diverse selection of fruits. “Is that Keats?” he exclaimed, surprised, at the sight of the book of poetry carefully tucked into one of the half-open trunk compartments. “Was he a wizard?”

“A squib,” snapped Draco, slamming the compartment shut.

“Didn’t take you for a poet.”

“You swore a Vow of Secrecy concerning the _entirety_ of this exchange, Drake,” he hissed.

Drake’s trademark crooked grin spread across his face, and Draco was taken aback to see the genuine mirth aimed at him. “There might just be a side of ‘sneaky’ buried beneath all your pomp after all,” he said, laughing.

The pureblood scowled, but that was compliment, right? Backhanded, but well-meaning. He’d let it slide for now.

With an audible snap, a sharp knife was held in Drake’s hand. He scraped out a couple of runes at the bottom of the trunk— curious, Draco had never seen them before! The panel to the secret compartment of the trunk popped open.

The wand lay among several other books and knickknacks— okay, Draco had lied, he hadn’t gotten rid of _all_ the incriminating books, but he hadn’t gone talking around talking about them either, so he’d thought he was safe. He swallowed hard— but Drake spared the contents of the compartment no further attention than to grab the wand. He closed the panel, replaced the runes and cast a glamour over them.

“I’m right about this not having the Trace, right?” he asked, rolling the wand through his fingers contemplatively.

Draco nodded mutely.

“Good.” Drake closed the trunk and hopped to his feet. “Thank you for this,” he said, and them he was heading to the door.

“Wait!” Draco exclaimed. “What about the t— what you promised me?”

At the threshold, Drake peeked back into the room. “I’m going to be gone from Hogwarts for about a month. I’ll get back to you when I return, promise. Make a list of everything you want to go over with me till then.”

“ _Gone?_ But why?”

“No questions, remember? Sorry, but I’ve really got to go now. Plane tickets don’t buy themselves.” He rushed off, leaving Draco speechless behind him.

Taking the steps down to the common room two at a time, Tim cast a _Tempus_. 6:49 PM. He had to hurry if he was going to make it out of the castle, into Muggle London and back in time.

But nearing the bottom step, a familiar voice called out, “Tim!”

Blaise stood behind at the top of the stairs. He beckoned almost frantically. With an inner groan, Tim bounded up to him and allowed himself to be pulled into a shadowed corner of the landing. “Blaise, I’m in a real hurry—”

Blaise cast a series of privacy charms with a well-practiced air and turned back to him. “—to buy a plane ticket, yes, I know.”

Tim paused. “What?”

“You need to get into Muggle London, buy a plane ticket to Ethiopia, arrange for a taxi to pick you up at King’s Cross, and then get back. Or did I overlook something?” He smiled at Tim’s frozen expression. Then he pulled out a familiar rune-covered metal chip from his pocket.

Tim groaned. “How the hell did you get that on me and then off again without me noticing?”

“You’ve been distracted the last couple of days. And I’m glad I know the reason.” Blaise’s face turned serious. “Because there’s no way I can let you go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHDHDHHDH— sorry about the abrupt ending 😔 I'm so excited;; the two worlds are finally coming together it only took like what, 30k words? lol. The plot is t h i ck en ing wooo
> 
> Anyways, unrelated, but I was reading some of my old stories. And dang. Like I know I have the tendency to be really long-winded and talk for way too long. But it used to be so much worse omg
> 
> I'm reading this old story where the characters are just fuckign MONOLOGING AT each other for twelve hours and I'm like,,, sweetie. Have you ever _had_ a converstaion??? Cuz this ain't it. I had my characters confessing to each other— not even love, but just "i like u, go out with me" type confession, like: "... I have never been happier than when I'm with u... u have brought out the best in me... your laughter and your joy brings light into my life... in the two months I've known u... i would like nothing more than to spend my life with u...." WHAT IS THIS;;; A WEDDING VOW???
> 
> Anyways lmao. Poor me, setting the bar so high. When I can barely string two coherent sentences together irl 😔 
> 
> Ok that's enough of that. Sorry for leaving you on such a bad cliffhanger. I appreciate all constructive criticism you have because obviously i need it lol. Thanks for reading!!! ♡♡
> 
> Edit: it's actually been 40k words my god


	26. The Struggles Of An Acerbic Tater Tot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaise confronts Tim feat. A LOT of height jokes... rip short people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The summary and title make zero (0) sense I'm so sorry, I'm working on like.. four percent brain capacity

—

_“You’ve been distracted the last couple of days. And I’m glad I know the reason.” Blaise’s face turned serious. “Because there’s no way I can let you go.”_

_—_

Tim stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean,” said Blaise, “that it’s unlikely you’ll be able to sneak out of Hogwarts and get everything done, then sneak back in before morning. Not to mention if you’re going to go gallivanting around playing hero, being sleep deprived won’t do you any favors.”

“Okay,” said Tim with narrowed eyes. “Point taken. But there’s no other option— because I _am_ going to Ethiopia and you’re not stopping me.”

Blaise raised his hands. “I’m not. It’s stupid, but I’m not. I’m saying that if you want to go, your current plan won’t work. That’s why I’m offering my help.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Merlin, tone down the sarcasm. You could stand to be more grateful, you know, in the wake of my generosity.”

“All right, o’ generous one,” said Tim. “How do you plan on getting a plane ticket and a ride without leaving the castle?”

“Easy,” Blaise smirked. “Have somebody do it for me. I told you House Zabini has access to the Muggle world. I can get someone to organize something.”

Tim scrutinized him. “Swear it.”

“I swear on my magic that I will use House Zabini’s connections to ensure you a plane ticket and an escort to the airport. So mote it be.”

They stared at each other for several moments. Blaise’s eyes were dark and serious. Tim swallowed and looked down. “And in return…”

“… you tell me about the visions you mentioned. When you were talking to Gryffindors. Rude, by the way, to let them in on your plan and not me.”

Tim nodded, secretly relieved. He’d been worried Blaise would demand a much larger favor. “Agreed. And… well, if I’d known you’d be so useful…”

Blaise grinned. “You’d have exploited me much more readily, understood. Now, get to bed, kiddo.”

Tim glared at him. “I’m short but I’m not _that_ short!”

“Right, ankle biter.”

“Are you kidding me.”

“Toddler.”

“You’re unfriended. Consider yourself unfriended.”

“Sorry, couldn’t hear you from down there, infant.”

“You call me an infant yet demonstrate the mental maturity of an embryo—”

“So cruel! Must be because of all that anger pent up in a smaller space.”

“Get fucked.”

“Case in point,” Blaise said, laughing. “You better come back soon, hear me? Or I’ll have to put out a missing person report for a particularly acerbic tater tot.”

#

Snape accompanied him to King’s Cross the next morning. They rode in the horseless carriages silently. As they stepped through the barrier to the muggle side of the train station, Snape withdrew a stack of papers from his pocket— the calculations they’d been working on together.

“A few more alterations to the ritual, and the theoretical could be transferred into practice,” he said, blank faced. “As you’re well aware, that would be illegal, which is why I return the calculations to you now, before they reach a stage at which someone might come under the false impression that I would abet a crime.”

“You’re an admirably upstanding citizen, Professor,” Tim agreed blandly. He packed the calculations in his bag, to be completed on the plane. “I wish for nothing more than to follow your law-abiding example.”

“Very good,” said Snape, casting a sharp gaze over the platform. “Where are your parents?”

“They sent someone to pick me up, where… ah, there.” Tim met the gaze of an enormous, boulder of a man; tall, compactly muscled, with dark skin, thick dreads and a sharp black tuxedo. A thin silver bottle hung on a chain around his neck. He recognized him as the man Blaise had told him to keep an eye out for.

His exact words had been “built like a bull”— and boy, was that accurate.

Snape nodded curtly. “Give the school notice in advance to your return. I shall meet you here.”

Tim made his way over to the man. “Well met, Brock of House Zabini,” he greeted respectfully. Brock was not a member of the Zabini family, Blaise had explained, but had been an ally in their service for so long, he had been granted status as one of their House. 

Brock nodded at him with a smile both warm yet distantly refined. “Well met, Heir Drake. Shall I place your bag in the trunk?”

Tim tightened his grip on his bag. Inside were the tools he’d used for Project Stage Kidnapping; rope, screwdriver, duct tape, baseball bat, along with the Traceless wand. “No, thank you,” he said, “I’ll carry it myself.”

Brock nodded and opened the passenger side door without further word. Tim clambered inside. The moment both of them were in their seats and the doors shut, Tim felt a peculiar feeling like water running down his body, and then he was suddenly sitting in the front next to Brock.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed.

“Runes, Heir Drake,” Brock explained, sounding amused, “on the side of your seat.”

Tim found the rune sequence. He traced it with his fingers thoughtfully. “How do they work? I don’t recognize these here…”

“Blaise says you are a runes enthusiast,” Brock remarked.

“I’m a programmer,” said Tim, “and runes are the closest magical equivalent. May I inquire as to how these function?”

“They create the illusion of you sitting in the backseat. In reality you got in shotgun from the start.”

“But this sequence…” mused Tim, “it’s activated by the doors closing. It’s activated by the starting condition being met… I’ve been trying to figure out how to do that for the longest time…”

Back when making a robot car for Project Steal Paperweight, he’d toiled over how to make a robot that could execute if-conditions. He hadn’t been able to figure it out. But this— this was exactly what he was looking for! “Tiwaz, Fehu— this one I don’t recognize, Uruz...” he muttered to himself, scribbling the sequence onto one of the sticky notes he always kept in his pockets. 

“The first block is the “illusion” block. It creates the illusion of being in the back seat, it’s also the largest, as you might notice. Quite a complex piece of work. The second block serves to determine when the doors are shut and the driver’s seat occupied. Both are continuously active, as long as any one of the conditions is unfulfilled. When you close the doors, the kinetic force used is transferred into magical energy, charging the second block of runes. Once the driver’s seat is occupied, they release the energy, which in turn activates the next block— “stop” runes. These terminate the “illusion” runes.”

“Wait, wait, that’s… a lot to unpack. First of all, kinetic force to magical energy? That’s _possible_?”

“Of course. What do you think you’re doing with every spell you cast? Accio, and the object just _happens_ to move because it feels like it?”

Tim blinked. “That’s. Okay, wow. I’d never thought of it that way.”

“And why would you have either? Wizards generally like to pretend the muggle world doesn’t exist— except for occasionally being a nuisance. It’s not widespread knowledge.”

“Right. And speaking of widespread knowledge— I thought runic processes couldn't be stopped until they’ve run their course, that’s to say; run out of magic? Every book I’ve read says trying to interrupt runic processes is disastrous!”

Brock rolled his eyes, a jarring break from his previously cool, butler-like composure. “That’s because you’re reading abridged, deficient British books, Heir Drake. Those warnings refer to interrupting runic processes by changing runes— that’s indeed to be avoided at all costs. Runes work for as long as they have magic. So you take away the magic.”

Tim frowned, leaning closer to the side of his seat to inspect the runes. It must’ve looked quite comical, with how he was twisting. “So these here, right after Kaunan— they… take away magic?”

“Steal it, so to speak. Like— I’m not proficient in muggle terms, but Blaise talks about them sometimes. Electronegativity? The stronger atom steals electrons from weaker ones?”

“Wait, that’s— that’s actually genius! One set of runes just takes away the magic from the others, and makes them stop. Okay, seriously. I know Britain’s in the habit of censoring things. But this makes runic processes so much more adaptable! How come—”

“Think, Heir Drake. Why _wouldn’t_ they want magic-stealing runes spread around freely.”

“…hold on. These are strong enough to steal magic from, like, _wizards_?”

“If properly adjusted and fueled.”

“Holy shit.”

“Indeed.”

They rode in silence for the next couple of minutes, Tim busy processing what he’d learned. The possibilities this opened! If he wasn’t on a time crunch and stressed out by the current situation, he would’ve jumped right into experimenting.

“I must admit,” Brock said, breaking the silence, “the function of these runes is rather redundant. I inscribed them only out of personal curiosity, to see how you’d react. Blaise told me you’re clever and… nonconformist, so to speak, when it comes to British censorship politics. We have different views in Italy, especially House Zabini, that’s why I felt the need to test you. Blaise might hold you to high regard, but the esteem of my House is harder to earn.”

Tim nodded slowly. “And… have I met your criteria?”

Brock didn’t reply. They pulled up to the airport parking lot, getting a spot so quickly Tim could only assume the car was charmed in some way. Tim’s anxiety spiked as Brock got out of the car without a word. Immediately, he found himself in the backseat.

Brock opened the door, saying, “Let’s put it this way.” He placed a large hand on Tim’s shoulder. “House Zabini can corroborate his respect for you enough to share his wish of your continued wellbeing.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. He first had to translate that sentence into normal human-speak, but… House Zabini thought he was decent enough to hope he stayed alive?

Brock opened the trunk. Tim peered into and nearly had a heart attack.

“You’re from Gotham, correct?” Brock remarked calmly, hefting an Uzi into one enormous hand. “You know how to use a gun?”

Tim did not. In fact, he felt a bit sick, staring at the rows of firearms lining the magically expanded trunk. Mutely, he shook his head.

“No?” Brock said with a raised eyebrow. He put the Uzi back. “Then start with something a little smaller… here.” He offered Tim a pistol. “It’s just .22 caliber. Barely any recoil.”

Tim was fervently waving his hands. “No, no, um, I don’t need a gun! Thank you but I’m good.”

Brock fixed him with a deadpan look, putting the pistol back slowly. “Blaise said you were going after a mass murderer.”

“Yes, well, he’d be right, but listen, I really appreciate it? But I don’t need a gun! I have, uh, something else.”

“Something else to protect yourself against a mass murderer. That’s not magic. Because magic would get you expelled.”

“Yes. Not, um, magic. That could get me expelled.”

“All right, Heir Drake,” Brock said and closed the trunk. “If you say so.”

Now Tim felt exceedingly embarrassed. They stood in front of the closed trunk, Brock still looking at him with a scrutinizing gaze and Tim scuffing his shoes against the pavement awkwardly.

“Why do you even have, uh, you know, so many guns?” he asked.

“Not all of us have the privilege of being able to use magic to defund ourselves, Heir Drake.”

Tim shot him a startled look. “Wait, you’re not—?” He cut himself off, realizing that might come across rude. “I appreciate your offer,” he said instead.

“Do not feel bad about declining,” Brock said serenely. “I’m just surprised a Gothamite would be so averse to guns.”

“Gotham might be better off if more us were.”

Brock gave him a calculating look. “You better get to your plane, Heir Drake,” he said finally.

“Thank you for the ride, sir.”

“Good luck, Heir Drake.”

#

The plane ride was the most agonizing Tim had ever been on. He spent the majority of the time anxiously outlining contingencies over and over in his mind. He tried to look at the calculations Snape had returned to him, but the numbers all blurred together until he stuffed them into his bag and tried meditating.

Once the plane touched down, he was the first out of his seat.

He threaded his way through crowds of people under the bright white lights of the airport. He recognized the arrivals board he’d seen in his dream and located the nearest exit. Standing outside of the bustling entrance, he took a deep, fortifying breath.

_Okay, Tim,_ he told himself. _You’re here. You can do it._

His clothes were covered in Notice-Me-Not charms and unobtrusiveness runes, so when he pulled out the Traceless wand, nobody spared him a glance.

“Point me, Jason Todd!” he hissed.

He could feel the wand resisting him. It wasn’t the proper wandcore or wood to match him, and it didn’t like him. But Tim channeled enough magic in that it grudgingly complied.

The wand spun around on his palm, before pointing northeast. 

He started walking.

It was two hours before he stopped. Night was setting around him. The Notice-Me-Not was starting to wear off, because people kept shooting him glances, but he refrained from reapplying it. His magic supply was definite and he didn’t know what awaited him in the warehouse the Point Me had brought him to.

He unzipped his duffel and retrieved the large thick rope. He’d fashioned a metal hook on top, like Batman’s grapple. It was lucky there were few people around, because getting the hook to snag on the roof (he would avidly insist that anyone who said it took him more than three tries was lying) and shimmying up was not the most inconspicuous thing he’d ever done.

He made his way across the roof in a careful crouch. He found a grimy skylight and tried to peer through, but couldn’t make out anything more than the dark floor.

Biting his lip, he cast a spell he’d been practicing with Fred and George the past month. They had been trying to figure out how to make an instrument with which to eavesdrop. The twins had found an obscure spell in the library and the trio had been trying to refine it a bit. So far, not much progress. So when Tim cast _Ampliauditus_ , he was assaulted by a roaring wave of auditory stimulus and had to squeeze his eyes shut in pain.

He let the swell of noise wash over him, breathing deeply. Almost immediately, he felt a headache coming on. He tried to focus on sounds coming from inside the warehouse, to determine whether or not the Joker was present, if it was safe to enter.

After all, a wand— especially one that didn’t even like listening to him— wasn’t much of a defense if he couldn’t use magic in front of the Joker, and couldn’t yet cast an _Obliviate_. 

A gun would have been useful. But Tim didn’t trust himself to fire the thing, and even if his aim was pretty on point ever since all the table tennis, firearms were something else. Plus, he wouldn’t put it past his innate revulsion of the object to put his aim off.

The warehouse was silent except for an occasional harsh wheezing sound… strained breathing. Jesus. Was that Jason? 

Fortunately, the Joker’s shrill voice or screeching laugh were nowhere to be heard. But buried beneath the din of sound, there was something else resonating from the warehouse… he frowned and concentrated harder… and barely managed to make out… a rhythmical… beep… beep… beep.

With a start, Tim jumped up. He canceled the spell and blinked back against the sudden nausea.

His heart was beating in his ears. A great, resounding drum. Like a mirror of the timer in the warehouse.

The timer of the bomb that had already been activated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left y'all on that lame ass cliffhanger last chapter knowing I was about to leave off on this one next... sorry 💀💀 
> 
> Snape: these illegal calculations are almost complete... I would 🙅🏻❌NEVER❌🙅🏻 do anything illegal... so I'll give them to you now and pretend like I don't know you can finish them yourself... drink your drugs, go to milk, don't do school, my child
> 
> Tim: oh wow 😯 such a good rolemodel, professor snape!! 😍😍 uwu


	27. Six Feet Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim discovers a scientific method.

  
If you asked Tim three days ago what he _didn’t_ think he’d be doing anytime soon, jumping dramatically through skylights to save his childhood hero would definitely be on the list. What can he say, life comes at you fast.

The moment he realized the bomb was already counting down, Tim was jumping into action. He scribbled a series of weakening runes on the glass. Then he grabbed his baseball bat and slammed down as hard as he could. Once, twice. The glass shattered.

A _Bombarda_ would have been both quicker and more elegant. But _Bombarda_ was a high-energy spell, that would have left him drained and shaky for at least ten minutes afterwards, and Tim was racing against the clock.

In a single movement he had secured the metal hook of his rope on the ledge and was sliding down. His palms burned. Tim grit his teeth and slid faster.

He landed on the floor with a jarring thump. Immediately, he scrambled to his feet. “Jason!” he bellowed. If there was anyone else in the warehouse they would’ve heard the window breaking, so there was no use being sneaky.

Rounding a corner— there he was.

Jason Todd, on the ground with his hands tied. His uniform hung in tattered rags. But there was the R, still intact, blood-splattered on his chest.

Tim was kneeling at his side in an instant. “Jason,” he cried, trying to lift the other boy up.

One startlingly blue eye met his from a torn domino. It looked just as dead and glassy as the other unbroken white lense. Tim swallowed hard. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay? _Wingardium Leviosa._ ”

The moment he was lifted into the air, Jason began to thrash. “Sto— pu’ me down!” he coughed. The spell broke and he crashed back to the floor.

“Don’t move,” Tim cried, horrified. He cast again, but Jason flailed wildly until he couldn’t hold the spell anymore.

“Sheila-… Sheila…!” the boy was hollering, seeming half delirious. “I have to… ge’ her ou’… she’s s’ill inside…”

Sheila, his mother. _Fucking hell_ , Tim thought. “Jason, I’m going to get her,” he said in his most soothing voice possible, “but first I need to get you out.”

“No… go, kid, ge’ outta here… there’s a bomb…”

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ,” Tim cast again, clenching his teeth hard enough to make it hurt. Jason’s struggling was weaker now. Tim managed to get him to the door. He set him down and cast _Alohomora_. And— oh, fuck, there was _another_ lock, there were _five_. Joker wasn’t taking any chances with the Bats’ famed knack for escapism. Or any unexpected magical allies of theirs.

The last lock clicked open. Tim turned to Jason— and caught sight of the bomb. 

  
2

… Tim’s heart sunk through his stomach. A hand gripped his ankle and jerked down. He was falling…

…1. Jason rolled on top of him, shielding him with his body. Tim barely succeeded in getting his wand out from under him. He cast the strongest shield charm that he knew.

Even squeezing his eyes shut, light burned across his retinas. Lightning, with thunder following right after. The ground tremored violently and Tim and Jason were atoms shaking, knocking into each other in a giant sound wave. The ceiling came down.

Tim felt every piece of rubble impacting on his shield. He forced more magic through the resisting wand, knowing he was draining his core way too much, way too fast.

Was the ground still shaking? Or was it just the concussion making his brain rattle around in his skull?

He opened his eyes. They might have already been open, because his surroundings stayed as dark as before. Somewhere along the line, his shield had failed. Tim reached out a shaking hand to feel rough granite above him. He and Jason were trapped in a cocoon made of concrete.

“Jay… Jason,” he murmured, feeling for the boy’s pulse. It fluttered weak and fast against his fingertips, butterfly wings beneath skin. He sucked in a deep breath. Jason was deadweight on top of him, but he wasn’t… _dead_ weight. That was what mattered. Batman was coming for them, _Jason wasn’t dead._

But, God _damn_ , was he heavy. Had he always been this heavy? Tim was having trouble breathing. He inhaled another choked gasp and tried to distract himself listing all the spells he knew in alphabetical order.

The Traceless wand was still intact in his hands, but trying to touch it with his exhausted magic was like forcing the wrong ends of magnets together. He doubted it would do him the favor of following even one more order.

Waiting for a rescue it was then. Good thing Tim wasn’t claustrophobic, or being trapped like this would really freak him out. Although, breathing was getting _really_ hard now. 

_The walls aren’t closing in on you, don’t be absurd_. He reached a hand against the stones again, just to make sure.

Come to think of it, Jason was breathing pretty heavily too now. Each shallow gasp rasping in his throat like he wasn’t getting enough air. The walls hadn’t moved. But—

 _Oh, hell_ , Tim realized, feeling dumb. _We’re suffocating._ Then, panic setting in, _We’re suffocating!_

This wasn’t a problem that could be solved by waiting things out. He felt dizzier with every breath. How–… how… could he… what could he–… His head pounded like he’d just used an _Ampliauditus_ , and his ears were still ringing from the explosion too. He knew confusion, dizziness and headaches were a symptom of carbon dioxide poisoning. He knew that. He just couldn’t figure out what to do about it.

_Okay. Need air. Need air. Transfigure air. What’re air chemicals again? Fuck. I need— oxygen. Carbon dioxide to oxygen transfiguration. I just need to… to transfigure the carbon…_

He lifted the Traceless wand. This was going to be pure channeling of intent, because fuck if he knew if there was an actual spell for this. But— right. The wand. Didn’t want to listen. In fact, it was almost repelling his magic now. Fucking useless piece of trash. He was going to burn it in front of Malfoy’s face when he got out of here.

He threw it down and instead stretched his fingers out. He could do a wandless _Lumos_ and a wandless heating charm. It wasn’t much, but he’d always been proud, since all other British wizards apparently couldn’t. But a _Lumos_ wasn’t going to save him now. It was Transfiguration; the one branch of magic he could barely do _with_ a wand, much less without one.

Tim knew it wasn’t working. He knew. He might be turning his head into jelly for all he actually felt happening. McGonagall would tell him, _“You’re just not framing it right”_ — but fuck that. Schrodinger’s cat just wasn’t helping right now, because trying to envision a dead cat in a box was hitting a _little_ too close to home.

Let’s be honest. Using his imagination as a crutch was never going to cut it for Tim; he’d always been too much of a skeptic for that. He needed the hard and tangible truths, and trying to trick his mind into believing things that went against his principles, you know, the locality principle, the causality principle, and the invariance principle— physics— (and the no-killing principle— Batman*), was like putting band aids over bullet wounds. Not good enough.

He’d been getting by, just barely, so far. But this was a succeed or bleed out type situation. It was like looking through a light microscope, trying to find the right resolution to make the sample appear in focus— there was a moment it clicked into place, when before everything had been blurry. It wasn’t about fantasy or imagination… it wasn’t even about willpower, because if it was just about _wanting_ things to come true then, well damn, Tim would have loving parents and a family by now, wouldn’t he? No, it was, like everything else, a scientific method.

Einstein’s theory of relativity put mass in relation to energy. It said that energy could be converted into mass, and vice versa. Which meant… to turn carbon dioxide into oxygen, all he had to do was get rid of the carbon. An unfortunate side effect of mass to energy conversion was radioactive waste, but if it was possible to turn regular energy into _magical_ energy— he thought of Brock explaining how the runes transformed kinetic force — then _theoretically_ , radioactive waves to magical energy should be possible.

In fact, maybe it was _inherent_ to the process. Otherwise everyone performing an _Evanesco_ — _vanishing_ an object, so, by Tim’s theory, _transfiguring_ it into energy by fission— would be dousing themselves in radiation at the same time. Since wizards didn’t seem any weirder and more mutated than normal humans, safe to say the radioactive waves emanating from the vanished/transfigured object were automatically converted to magical energy.

It made sense, since the fission itself was not powered like Muggle nuclear reactions, but by magic. So the subsequent conversion of radiation to magic was intrinsic to the process— or at least, it _better_ be, otherwise Tim and Jason might die of _other_ reasons. Like Tim accidentally creating the magical equivalent of an atomic bomb. 

That would be bad.

Even worse would be to give up, now that the pieces had _clicked_ together; he was staring through a microscope at the picture clear _possibility_ of success. 

Because Batman needed a Robin and Tim was _not_ going to let Jason Todd die here.

Tim raised his shaking hand. He channeled his magic into the most concentrated, broad _Evanesco_ ever performed, targeting hundreds of carbon atoms each second.

 _Please don’t throw up now_ , he told his body, which was decidedly _not on board_ with the current situation. His body gave him the metaphorical middle finger. Tim threw up.

At least, through the acrid stench of vomit and sweat, he could breathe again. 

Even if with each passing moment exhaustion weighed heavier on him.

Eventually, he couldn’t keep up the stream of magic anymore. He inhaled a shuddering breath, knowing from now on they were numbered. If the air ran out again, he wouldn’t have the strength to transfigure more. 

The concrete above him shuddered. Dust fell onto Tim’s face. He tried not to think about dead cats in a box.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.”

Jason didn’t reply. 

Tim was almost happy when he felt his consciousness draining; at least it wouldn’t hurt. Light filtered in through his blurred vision. A silhouette stood illuminated above him. Was his brain, in his last moments, giving him a hallucination to hold on to?

He’d take it. 

_Batman’s coming for us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I'm trying so hard to be funny 💀 please don't unkudos or whatever it is
> 
> Jason's official cause of death was, in fact, suffocation. Anyways, the more I write about him, the more I want to give him a hug. Imagine voting for tiny Jason Todd to die. Unbelievable.
> 
> THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR THE AMAZING RESPONSE TO THE LAST CHAP. I opened my inbox to 20+ new comments and had to first count them all because I couldn't believe it. I'm really grateful for all the kind words, and they totally motivate me to write faster. Thank you so much!! ♡♡♡


	28. Bruce Is Tormented By His Subconscious— What Else Is New?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a stranger lying unconscious in the Cave, and he might have the answers Bruce is looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a chapter to hopefully distract you during nail-biting times.

Bruce had felt loss. He had felt failure. He felt it every time he looked into the terrified eyes of another victim he was too late to save.

But not like this— _never_ before like this.

His parents’ death… it broke something inside of him. The soft and vulnerable part of him.

If Jason died… it would _kill_ that piece.

Heaving desperately at wreckage, hoarsely shouting, “Robin!”, all while odds and probabilities shot through his mind; if Jason had survived the blast (he had to!) and was trapped beneath rubble, with each second his supply of oxygen decreased. It had been two minutes since the bomb had blown— oxygen levels might already be dwindling beneath 20%, meaning Jason’s risk of death by hypoxia was growing dangerously.

And then; a glimpse of yellow between gray. He shoved at stone and debris violently. The last chunk of rubble came free. There lay his boy… his son…

He lifted him into his arms gingerly, feeling like an iron hand was trying to wrench his heart out of his chest. _Please, please, please_ … a mantra in his head as he felt for a pulse.

He choked out a breath. Alive, his son was alive! Bruce caught sight of another body lying in the rubble. Covered in grime and vomit, but Bruce never forgot a face. He recognized young Timothy Drake. 

A split second decision. Jason needed medical attention as soon as possible, and there was only one person he trusted that could give it. Bruce scooped Tim up in his other arm and raced towards the Batplane.

It would take them an hour to get to Gotham. Bruce immediately gave both boys infusions and resuscitation masks. He bandaged the most pressing of Jason’s injuries. Tim himself was uninjured, but his heart stopped halfway through the flight. Bruce pressed the defibrillators against his chest and growled, “Stay with me, Tim!”

For some reason, he knew Tim was a crucial element in Jason’s rescue— either _had been_ or _would still be,_ or both. Either way, he knew Tim was important. Bruce didn’t attribute that knowledge to fate or destiny— but to the sight of the boys clutching each other under the rubble before he’d tugged Jason free.

Tim’s heart resumed beating.

They set down in Gotham. A rooftop a block away from Leslie’s clinic. The doctor blanched when she caught sight of Robin being set atop her medical table. But her hands stayed steady as she snapped on her gloves.

Bruce stayed on the roof in costume, waiting for the emergency surgery to finish. He was trembling from head to toe, falling apart. He’d _done_ the math. He _knew_ how close he had been to losing his son. 

If he had lifted that rock to find Jason dead… he didn’t know what he would have done. And God, he didn’t want to find out. Just how far over the edge it would have pushed him. 

The sun bled over the tops of the buildings, turning the city gray-gold in its wake. 5 am. 

Leslie pushed open the door to the roof, looking bone-weary. She leaned against the ledge opposite of Bruce and lit a cigarette. For a while they were silent. 

Then Bruce rasped, “Is he…?”

She looked at him. She’d never heard him sounding less put together, except when he’d begged her to save Robin six hours before. “He’s stable,” she said. Bruce slumped forward like a puppet with its stings cut.

There was a reason he only came out night, she thought. With the daylight filtering in through the smog, the shadow of the mythical washed off of him like ink under water. All he looked like now was a man, in a bat costume, exhausted.

“I don’t _ever_ ,” she said quietly, “want to see a child on my table in that condition again.”

He didn’t reply. She flicked her cigarette to the ground and straightened. “I mean it, Bruce,” she said, voice hard. “I’ve told you before— it’s not right what you’re doing. I’ve always patched you and your child soldiers up and sent you on your merry way, to rest and repeat the cycle again. But if you ever bring me one of your kids in this type of state again— I’m not joking, Bruce. I will call child protection services. And I won’t rest until they take those kids away from you.”

Finally, a reaction. Bruce got to his feet. She crossed her arms, ready to stand her ground in case of a dispute— but it never came. All Bruce did was say, “Thank you. Thank you, Leslie. I won’t ever… I won’t ever let them—” he broke off, unable to get the words out.

She was speechless. Never had she heard him so faltering before. _Maybe_ , she thought… _maybe this time it really will be the last._

The door slammed open. One of her assistants; Myra, stood at the doorway, eyes flickering across the roof nervously.

“What is it?” Leslie asked urgently.

“Um, the boy… the other one. He’s awake, and he’s freaking out,” Myra said. She glanced across the roof again. She thought Leslie might be talking with Batman, considering _who_ they’d just had on an operating table for six hours, but the roof was empty.

Leslie was striding down the steps two at a time. “Symptoms?” she barked.

“Trembling, shortness of breath; it seems to be a panic attack, but the symptoms don’t quite match up,” Myra replied, following her. “He’s trying to communicate something, but he’s having trouble breathing…”

They reached the door to the boy’s room. He’d been brought in with Robin, in significantly better condition in regards to life threatening injuries, but there was _something_ wrong with him. “Stay out here,” she told Myra, then entered.

She knew Bruce must have heard the conversation. She hadn’t had to look when Myra arrived to know he’d disappeared, but he must’ve been close.

Indeed, she had barely began assessing her patient, when she heard the Bat’s footsteps behind her. The boy’s eyes widened. He rasped, “B-… Ba-… I’m… d-don’t … don’t…”

This wasn’t just a panic attack. Leslie checked his vitals, concerned. He was still extremely weak— _too_ weak, for someone with no outside injury.

Tim seemed frustrated by his inability to articulate. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the tremors racking his body. He felt freezing cold, so cold even keeping his eyes open was a struggle… at the same time, he was soaked in sweat. His hands began to twitch jerkily. 

_I’m T-I-M_ , he signed.

Beneath the cowl, Bruce’s eyebrows rose.

 _Don’t call anyone to come get me_. He continued signing, even as his hands got shakier. _Don’t call. Don’t call._

“Tim, honey,” Leslie was saying, trying to get his attention, “we need you to…”

But Tim was already unconscious.

#

In the end, Bruce decided to take Tim back to the Cave. It wasn’t a decision lightly made. But it took him all of an hour to find out the Drakes were somewhere in Manglisi on an architectural dig, and their son was _supposed_ to be at a private boarding school. In Britain.

Something wasn’t right here.

And the way Tim’s eyes had pleaded with him, how he’d signed _Don’t call_ over and over again— 

Bruce didn’t like it. Not one little bit. Tim had seemed terrified. And there was still the mystery of his presence at the warehouse. He couldn’t have been a hostage; he was much too unharmed for that (and how would the Joker even have gotten his hands on him?). But there _was_ something wrong with him— at the very least the fact that, in the two days since he’d signed at Bruce, he had _yet to wake up_.

So Bruce bundled Jason, loopy off painkillers, and a comatose Tim into the Batmobile, and drove home. Leslie had given him a _look_ , but she hadn’t commented. The clinic operated semi-legally anyway. It wasn’t like there was a form to fill out for kidnapping.

Alfred cried when he caught sight of Jason, being carried up the stairs from the Cave and into the Manor. “Don’ cry, Alf… don’ cry…” Jason murmured, patting the butler on the back uncoordinatedly. This, of course, made Alfred cry harder. 

“I thought… I was afraid we’d lost you, Master Jason,” he whispered. “Forgive me. I’m so happy you’re back.”

The three of them ate an exceedingly awkward meal— exceedingly awkward because Alfred kept having to dab at his eyes and sniffle suspiciously, Bruce kept having to place his hand on Jason’s shoulder, remind himself he was real, every few minutes, and Jason himself was so high off the painkillers he had trouble using his fork.

When Bruce tucked Jason into bed— something he hadn’t done in a while, but by God, was he going to keep doing it until Jason kicked him out again— the boy caught his sleeve.

“Bru’…” he slurred.

“Yes, Jason?”

“The boy, where’s he?”

“The boy we found with you?”

He couldn’t see Jason’s expression in the dark, but he could feel his grip tighten. “He said ’e was goin’ back in… he said he was gonna get Shei-… Shei…”

Bruce’s heart crumpled. “Jason… I’m so sorry, son. We found Sheila in the rubble. She’s dead.”

Jason was silent for a long time. Bruce stroked his face. “Jay-lad? Talk to me, please.”

“’m not sad,” Jason whispered.

Bruce tried to drudge up long-repressed memories of therapy, reciting, “It’s all right to feel—”

“No,” Jason interrupted, fiercer. “’m not sad. I didn’ wan’ her to die, I _tried_ to save her… but she… she…” Bruce could feel him start to shake beneath him.

“Hey,” he said, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes for his son, who was feeling the same anguish he knew all too well, “it’s all right, Jay, just… let it out. I’ve got you.” 

Jason’s fingernails dug into his shoulders as he sobbed. Muffled into Bruce’s chest between tears, he whispered, “She deserved it.” 

Bruce froze. Then, because Jason was still falling apart against him, he resumed stroking the boy’s back. It was a comfort method he’d seen Alfred use many a time. If it came out somewhat stilted when he did it himself, well, Jason didn’t seem to mind. The tears slowly abated.

“She sold me out,” he said quietly. “To _him_. Jus’… jus’ _handed me over._ ”

Bruce was shocked silent. Jason pulled away, sniffling, sounding choked. “B… say somethin’ please…”

In an instant, Bruce had wrapped him back in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Jay-lad. I’m so sorry.” He pressed a kiss against his son’s shoulder, not knowing what to say. He wished he could give voice to the horror he felt, he wished he could comfort Jason better, protect him— again, a failure, again, again.

“The boy,” Jason said hoarsely.

“Downstairs,” Bruce said. “He hasn’t woken up yet.”

“B… there was somethin’ weird abou’ him…”

“What was weird?”

“He ran in… I don’ know where he came from… he had like-… like a stick? And the nex’ thing I knew I was in the air. He made me float. Tried ’a get me out… I freaked, B, I dunno what happened next… but he was there when the bomb blew. An’ I was…” Jason swallowed hard. “I was expectin’ to get hit when the roof caved…” he said weakly. “I _shoulda_ got hit, but I didn’ feel anything.”

Bruce was quiet, calculating. “I found a stick in the rubble, where you were laying.”

“B?”

“Hm?”

“He’s good. Don’… I dunno. Don’ go all B-man on ’im.”

“‘B-man on him’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Bruce asked, amused.

“You know. Call me before you talk to ’im. You’ll scare him otherwise. You’re pretty scary, when I’m not around.”

He was probably right about that. _What would I do without you, Jason?_ Bruce wasn’t just scary— he was unhinged. An omen missing its bright side. Flaws and failure—with no redeeming qualities.

“Sure, chum,” he said, inexpressibly fond. “I’ll run it by you first.”

#

With Jason asleep upstairs, Bruce got to work. He’d inspected the wooden stick. The wood outside was elm. The material inside was something he’d never seen before. Some type of alien substance? How had Tim gotten his hands on it?

The boy was registered under Hogwarts School for Gifted Children. It was a boarding school in the Scottish Highlands. Apparently, it was extremely particular about the pupils it accepted. There was no website, findable address or information on how to apply. It seemed to send out invitations to attend based on predetermined criteria— what those criteria were, however, Bruce had no clue. He could not determine a single connecting element between the children who received invitations (of which there were scarcely few), except that 100% of them accepted, and almost 100% fell off the radar for the rest of their lives.

The entire thing seemed suspect. Bruce was reminded of Ma Gunn’s School for Crime; the boarding school he’d initially sent Jason to after their meeting in Crime Alley. Of course, he hadn’t known of its illicit background at the time, but he never made the same mistake twice. Something smelled fishy about this ‘Hogwarts’ and Bruce would get to the bottom of it.

#

Breakfast was a strained affair. There were no tears or shoulder pats— because Jason was in his room, considerably more lucid, and refusing all company.

Alfred said to give the boy some space. It was only his reprimanding narrow-eyed look that kept Bruce in his seat and not barging down the door to Jason’s room.

“What if he’s—”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said wearily, “the heart monitor is in place. The cameras are intact. Jason is fine. Eat your breakfast.”

Bruce’s leg bounced anxiously.

Alfred cleared his throat.

Deliberately, he planted his foot back on the floor. Now his finger was tapping. Alfred sighed and gave it up as a lost case. 

“May I inquire as to the investigation on our guest?” the butler asked.

Bruce’s frowned deepened. “It’s… extraordinarily difficult to dredge up any information on his school. The one he was _supposed_ to have been at. I’ve sent Barbara his files to look into. I’ve never come across a place with such an untraceable digital footprint before.”

“Perhaps there simply _is_ no digital footprint?”

“That just doesn’t make sense. Not for the type of school people like the Drake’s would send their son too. Unless we’re talking about some sort of cult. They could be—”

There was a thunderous crash.

Immediately, Bruce was on his feet.

“Jason!” he bellowed. “Jason, are you—”

“ _WHERE THE HELL_ ,” Jason screamed back, “ _IS DICK?!_ ”

Bruce had slid to a stop at the foot of the grand staircase. He looked up at Jason, fuming in his wheelchair on the landing. His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were red-rimmed and livid.

“Jason,” he said weakly. “What’s wrong?”

“ _Where_ ,” Jason repeated, “ _Is. Dick?_ ” 

“Dick’s… with the Titans. In space.”

Jason’s lower lip trembled. “Why,” he began, and then he exploded, “ISN’T HE HERE? WHY ISN’T HE HERE WHEN I ALMOST _DIED_?”

“He’s on a mission—” Bruce tried.

“I COULD HAVE DIED AND THE MISSION’S MORE IMPORTANT!?”

“Master Jason,” Alfred cut in. Thank God for that, because Bruce was frozen in place. He was watching his son losing it and he didn’t know what to do. “Master Dick was not informed of your… condition. We did not want to distract him at a crucial moment.”

“I’m a _distraction_? I’M DEAD AND THAT’S A _DISTRACTION_? HE SHOULD BE _HERE_.” 

Jason’s eyes were suspiciously wet. Bruce made a pitiful croak, trying to call him back, but Jason ignored him. He clumsily wheeled his chair over the landing and back into his room. The door slammed violently enough to make the picture frames shake on the walls, leaving Bruce and Alfred to gape behind him.

#

Bruce’s dreams were haunted by visions of the warehouse. He was just seconds too late— seconds, _seconds!_ Jason slipped between his fingers, turning into ash, blown up by the bomb. He screamed his throat raw, calling for his son, while Jason’s accusing voice echoed through his mind: _I COULD HAVE DIED AND THE MISSION’S MORE IMPORTANT?_

 _You were too late, Bruce_ , Jason said.

_You couldn’t save me, I fought for you, I suffered for you—_

His voice morphed into that, or maybe was joined by that, of Bruce’s parents: _We struggled and we went without for you, all we wanted was for you to be happy AND YOU STILL COULDN’T SAVE ME GOD DAMN YOU—_

Bruce jerked awake.

Not because his dream had reached its climax; no, Bruce knew his subconscious was _far_ from out of subject matter to torture him with.

He jerked awake because there was someone at his bedroom door.

“B,” a muffled voice whimpered from behind it.

He was at the door in an instant. He opened it to see Jason, haphazardly seated in his wheelchair, face blotchy and wet.

“Jay-lad,” he said, hoisting the boy into his arms. “What’s wrong, Jay, what’s wrong?”

Jason cried and clutched him harder. “C-C-Couldn’t sleep…”

“Shh.” This had happened often, back when Dick was still young. Less often with Jason, but bundling the boy into bed beside him felt no less familiar. 

He stroked his son’s hair soothingly. “It’s okay, Jay-lad, I got you.”

“Don’t— Don’t let him‐…”

“No one’s going to hurt you. You’re okay.”

“No! Please, B, he’s still out there—” 

Bruce gently untangled his hands from where they’d been desperately gripping his pajamas. “I won’t let him get you, Jay, you’re safe,” he promised.

“B, he’s out there—”

“He can’t get—”

“He’s alive!” Jason burst out. “No one’s safe as long as he’s alive!”

Bruce swallowed hard. “ _You’re_ safe,” he said, “you’re safe because I won’t let him touch you.”

Jason buried his face in Bruce’s chest. Bruce could feel his tears soaking through the thin cotton. “You can’t always be there,” he said.

And it was Bruce’s biggest shortcoming that Jason had had to experience that first hand.

“I called Dick,” Bruce said after a long moment of silence. “He’s coming home.”

Another lengthy pause. “I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”

Jason didn’t reply. He’d fallen asleep.

Bruce stared into the shadows for a long time after that.

#

The next afternoon found Bruce— as usual— in the Cave, an empty mug of coffee and an untouched plate of food beside him. Somewhat unusual was the fact that he was up before two, but Jason had physical therapy that day and Bruce had been determined to accompany him.

Then Jason had thrown a huge fit and refused to go if Bruce came along. Bruce was flabbergasted (and hurt), but Alfred sent him a quelling look when he tried to follow them into the car. Arriving back home after dropping Jason off, he said, “Master Bruce, I do believe a different type of therapy is necessary here.”

“Why didn’t he want me to come, Alfred?”

Alfred shook his head sadly. “I don’t know, Master Bruce, but I do know the poor boy is struggling with a lot of things right now. We need to provide him with the proper assistance.”

“Al’… that meltdown yesterday, about Dick…”

“We need to provide him with the proper assistance,” Alfred repeated firmly.

Bruce nodded slowly. Regardless of his own distaste for therapy, he would never hinder his children from getting the most help possible. “I’ll ask Dinah to stop by,” he said.

Alfred smiled. He placed a wrinkled hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Jason will come around,” he said softly.

Bruce sure hoped so.

He headed down to the cave to get some work done while Jason was gone. Jason’s unexplained breakdown or not, he sure as hell would be coming to pick him back up from physio.

Somewhat distracted, he began looking through the files Barbara had sent him.

Unprecedentedly, she hadn’t been able to unearth more on Tim’s mysterious school either. What she had been able to discover were records from Tim’s life before the school. She found dozens of plane tickets, placing his parents all over the world while their son stayed in Gotham. She found multiple nannies hired to check on the boy— with a frequency of twice a week. It seemed he’d been left alone for the rest of the time.

As much as the budding case of child neglect angered Bruce, he read through the rest of the files stoically. Something had happened when Tim turned eleven— something that spurred the Drakes to send him to a boarding school in Britain, notorious and reputable for housing the children of the wealthy and affluent. It was exactly the type of school people of the Drake’s caliber would send their son to (although what had prompted the abrupt decision was unclear), except Tim only attended it for a sum of three weeks before switching to the mysterious, no-name Hogwarts.

That was where the key lay, Bruce was sure of it. The key to figuring it out— _why_ Tim had been on the scene, _why_ he wasn’t waking up and his organs were threatening to fail despite medical intervention, and perhaps the most pressing in Bruce’s mind: _how_ he’d saved Jason.

Because Bruce had done the math. Over and over again in a dizzying mixture of horror and relief.

He had arrived on the scene seconds after the bomb blew. He’d spent up to nine minutes digging through rubble until he found Jason. He’d calculated the size of the hole the boys had been trapped in and the rate of oxygen expenditure. And then the angle of the wreckage on top of them— how, by some sort of _fluke_ , it encased them without crushing them.

Bruce had done the math. By the time he arrived on the scene, his son should have been _dead_.

But he wasn’t, and there was an unconscious stranger in the Cave who might just have the reason _why_.

He hadn’t forgotten what Jason had said, how he’d been levitated. Of course, his muddled memory might be playing tricks on him. But Bruce trusted his Robin. There were… _some_ sort of powers at work here, and he was determined to bring them to light.

Money was always a good way to go. Bruce started looking into the parents of the invited children, looking for transactions to discreet bank accounts. Surely they’d had to pay some sort of tuition?

A throat cleared behind him. Bruce knew all of Alfred’s different ‘ _ahem’s_ ’, just like Alfred knew to translate all his different grunts. This wasn’t a “you’ve let your food get cold, Master Bruce”-ahem. This was the “you might want to get a look at this” type.

Bruce turned immediately. “What is it, Alfred?” he asked, taking note of the man’s stiff posture.

“You have guests, Master Bruce. They are waiting for you in the drawing room.”

With a few taps of his keyboard, Bruce had drawn up the camera feed from the drawing room. He saw two men in sharp suits of a striking red color. One was sitting on the sofa, fidgeting awkwardly. The other was inspecting the room with a curious expression. Both had golden badges hanging around their necks on chains.

“They introduced themselves as law enforcement,” Alfred said softly.

Bruce tried to get a match on the badges and frowned when he couldn’t. He turned to look at the butler. “You… let them in?”

The innocuous question had both men pausing. Alfred’s expression didn’t outwardly change, but Bruce saw the realization in his eyes.

“I seem to have,” he answered slowly.

No one could get past Alfred. He could turn anyone from Vicki Vale to Superman down at the door with just a few sharp words. No appointment, no audience— _anyone_ looking for Bruce Wayne knew that, because Alfred made damn sure of it.

“They must have been very convincing.”

“Yes. Although it slips my mind,” Alfred said carefully, “how they did it.”

“Well then.” Bruce got to his feet, flashing a Brucie grin. “Best not keep them waiting. Watch the cameras, would you, Al’?”

He exited the Cave, taking a deep breath and running through the mental exercises he’d learned with the Tibetan monks, and then honed over the years until he could keep even Martian Manhunter from his mind.

They were dealing with some sort of mind control or mental hypnosis. There was no other option than to confront the strangers. Bruce wasn’t worried. This was no coincidence— digging into a secretive, organization, then have suspicious people turn up asking questions. This was an opportunity.

Slamming the door open exuberantly, he strode into the drawing room and greeted the strangers with a loud, booming, “Gentlemen!”

“Mr. Wayne,” the man sitting down greeted. The other was still standing somewhere at Bruce’s four o’clock. “Sorry for the unexpected visit.”

“No problem at all!” Bruce assured. He slouched into the opposite seat. “But I hope you’ll forgive me for not having anything ready to serve you with— just got up, you see,” he said, gesturing to his fluffy pink robe.

“Thank you for welcoming us regardless,” the man said with a thin smile.

“So what can I do for you, gentlemen? Are you law enforcement? Sorry for my boldness, of course, but I get a lot of law enforcement— the galas get wild sometimes _ha_. I don’t recognize you.”

“Yes, we’re law enforcement— of a sort,” the man replied. A sudden feeling of comfort washed over Bruce. He’d seen the man still standing pull out the wooden stick (trying to be discreet— but Bruce had been tracking him since he’d walked in; good luck getting a drop on the _Batman_ ), so when the foreign emotion washed over him with all the subtlety of a truck, he wasn’t surprised.

He distanced himself from his mind, grabbing hold of the alien emotion to dissect. Later. Now he pasted on a bright, vapid grin and heard his voice saying, as if from a distance, “Well, I’d love to help with whatever you need.”

“We have a few questions for you, Mr. Wayne. We heard you’ve been asking around— about Hogwarts?”

“Hogwarts! You know of it? That’s crazy! It’s like, super obscure! My close friends’ son, he’s practically my nephew, _ha_ , he goes there.”

“Does he? And he would be—?”

“Timothy Drake, of course! I’m not surprised he got accepted into such a selective school, I mean, Timmy’s always been a talented kid, and a school for gifted children is the right thing for him. I was telling Jack and Janet, ‘Now, you know Timmy’s got so much potential, you _have_ to make sure he gets a proper education’ and they said they already had a school picked out, and I was curious, you see. I dropped out of high school but I want only the best for my children, you know. And Jack and Janet were so insistent about Hogwarts, even though I can’t find anything about it— how crazy is that? _Ha!_ Do _you_ know anything about Hogwarts? I’ve googled it and everything, super strange. I wanted to know if my Jason could still apply, I mean, he’s a little older than Timmy, but in Europe, middle school and high school are combined, aren’t they? Jason could do, like, an exchange program. Does Hogwarts do those?”

The man across from him blinked at the onslaught of words. Then he gave an awkward chuckle. “Exchange program… um, no. Hogwarts doesn’t do those.” He caught his partner’s eyes over Bruce’s shoulder. 

“You were just curious then?” he asked.

“Of course!”

“Have you alerted anyone else about your search?”

“Alerted? Goodness, that sounds serious, _ha!_ All I did was ask Jack and Janet about the school, but they told me not to look into it. I told them, ‘Well certainly you can’t blame me for being curious?’ And they said ‘No, but Hogwarts is very private and you shouldn’t start digging around.’ It’s an awful shame about the exchange programs but—”

“That’s fine, Mr. Wayne,” the man quickly cut him off. He exchanged another glance with his partner and then seemed to come to a decision. “Your interest is understandable, but there’s no further need for it. All your questions have been answered. You feel no more curiosity on this subject.”

The cryptic words were all the warning Bruce had before a wave of strong befuddlement washed over him. It was an urge to accept things, to feel reassured. It made him feel disoriented enough that when the man spoke, his words bounced around in Bruce’s head and threatened to sink into his brain—

He dug his fingernails deep enough into his palms to draw blood. “I see,” he said slowly.

The man seemed satisfied. He was getting to his feet, the other was coming around the couch to join him. Bruce was too occupied with throwing off whatever it was they’d thrown at him to do more than stare blankly into distance, but Alfred appeared at his shoulder like a godsend.

“I’ll show you the way to the door, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. He led them out.

A couple minutes later, he returned. Bruce was still in his seat, although his expression had changed. No longer dull or blank, he was frowning thoughtfully at the crescent-shaped red indents on his palms.

“Master Bruce?”

“We’re dealing with magic,” he said. “That wasn’t a Mad Hatter type compulsion, it was telepathic by nature, channeled through those sticks they have… I suppose ‘wand’ would be appropriate in this context.” He wrinkled his nose. Saying ‘wand’ made him think Tim would hop to his feet chanting “bibity bobity boo!” (curse Dick for making him watch so many Disney movies).

He got up, stalking towards the entrance to the Cave, plan already forming in his mind. If they were dealing with magic… he’d need to call some outside help.

#

Dick arrived home the same day. He entered the Manor, caught sight of Jason in his wheelchair, and, dropping his bags, rushed towards him. He nearly bowled into him, sliding the last few feet on his knees and grabbing Jason in a tight hug. “Oh God,” he cried, breath hitching. “Oh God, _Jason_.”

Barbara appeared at the doorway behind him. Bruce was surprised. He hadn’t seen her in person since she’d been released from the hospital after… well. She looked much the same apart from the paler tint to her skin and the darker bags beneath her eyes. And the wheelchair, just like Jason’s… except hers was permanent.

Her gaze met Bruce’s and he saw the same fierceness in it as before, even muddled by exhaustion and pain. Then it caught on Dick and Jason. Bruce turned to look at them, and felt his heart squeeze.

Dick was shaking apart in Jason’s weak hold, crying over and over, “Oh God, Jaybird…”

Jason looked taken aback by the strong emotion, patting the older man’s back helplessly. Dick pulled back, searching his face with desperate, teary eyes. “Little brother…” he whispered.

Of all things, that shocked Jason the most. His eyes widened. And then he bit his lip hard. His face crumpled as if in slow motion as quiet, muffled sobs racked his frame. Dick pulled him back into his arms and Jason clung onto him.

#

Bruce wasn’t… jealous. He was happy his two sons had gotten so close, it was all he’d ever wished for. And he was happy Jason could find comfort with Dick. Of course he wasn’t jealous. He was just… sad… (and how it made his teeth clench to even admit that to his—quote by Barbara— “emotionally stunted brain”) that Jason no longer seemed to find comfort with _him_.

It was Dick’s room he went to after a nightmare. It was Dick he hung onto during a panic attack. It was Dick he spoke to, in hushed whispers, about the Joker.

With every day, Bruce felt the canyon between them growing wider. What would it take to bridge that gap again? Bruce was afraid it was something he couldn’t do.

#

“You suspect he’s a _Homo magi_?” Zatanna asked, staring at Tim. The boy was deadly pale, vulnerable and frail looking on the medical bed. The situation was getting dire. If Bruce couldn’t find a way to get him out of the unexplainable coma, he was at risk of organ failure.

“I sent you the files,” Bruce grunted in lieu of answering.

Zatanna snorted. “You sent me the files detailing your suspicions of an entire _hidden society_ of magic wielding humans with schools, governments and law enforcement. That go around tampering with people’s memory. And that also, children with no magical ancestors might also randomly develop such powers, refuting the entire concept of _Homo magi_ being a separate human race, which it _is._ So forgive me for wanting some more details.”

Bruce sighed. “How ever it’s possible, the fact is they _can_ wield magic. This boy is one of them. He’s been in a coma for over a week now, Zee. I need to know _why_.”

“Well if you’re going to be so polite about it,” she huffed. Turning towards Tim, she stretched her hands out and chanted, “Wohs em eht nosaer rof rouy niap!”

Her eyes glowed briefly. She gasped.

“Well?” asked Bruce, impatient.

“This boy… he’s suffering from severe magical exhaustion. At the same time, his body is so _overfilled_ with magic, it’s threatening to bring his organs to a standstill…”

“How is that possible?”

“It’s like he drained his magical reserves almost dry… but at the same time, his body was being flooded by magic from the outside. It’s not his _own_ magic, which is why his body is having such a hard time processing it.”

“So it should be drained out.”

“No! The only reason he’s not _dead_ right now from magical exhaustion is because of all the outside magic… if he could process it, make it his own, he’d have a truly _massive_ reserve of magic at his disposal…” she seemed almost in awe.

“The question is _can_ he, or can he _not_ ,” growled Bruce. 

Zatanna huffed. “I’m _getting_ there, Bruce. His body can’t properly regulate the foreign magic, so it’s clumping up, building clots. If an outside force were to channel magic _through_ him, it would get the magic circulating. With luck, it might saturate his body at a continuous, moderate enough pace that he be able to utilize it… this is all speculation, mind you. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“You’re our best bet.”

Zatanna cast another appraising glance at the boy laying on the bed. “He’s the one who saved Robin, isn’t he?”

“How do you know.”

“Jason told Dick about some mysterious kid who bust in to try and save him, Dick then enlisted Barbara, who hacked into your files, where you neatly and exhaustively detailed every aspect of Jason’s rescue. Including a comprehensive report on every single mistake you made that should have ended in Jason’s death, and which somehow, through supposed miraculous intervention by this stranger, didn’t. By the way— obsessive much? Dick then called me to say ‘Zee, you gotta save this kid— also, Bruce is losing his goddamn mind’. Which I was already pretty convinced of back when _you_ called me with your crazy theory about a whole hidden society of _Homo magi_. But I guess… you might’ve been onto something.”

Bruce grunted. His go-to noise when conversations took a turn into _don’t want to go there_ territory and he didn’t know how to reply.

“Bruce,” Zatanna said, voice softening, “you can’t blame yourself for everything that goes wrong.”

Cue inner eye roll. He’d lost count of how many people had tried that spiel on him— _couldn’t_ blame himself? Bruce could, and he most definitely would. 

“We’re getting off topic,” he growled.

“Right. I just wanted to say… Jason needs you. Right _now_. Not… stuck in the past, obsessing over mistakes.”

“What Jason _needs_ —” Bruce cut himself off, clenching his fists.

“What?” Zatanna asked, surprised. Bruce volunteering personal information was like pulling teeth. He must really be closer to falling apart then she'd thought.

“No. Nothing. We should get back to—”

“No, Bruce, stop. You were about to tell me something— come on. What does Jason need?”

“He needs me to kill the Joker! That’s what he needs, that’s what he wants from me. To get rid of that evil man— and it’s not even unreasonable to ask for. The world _would_ be better off without him… I just _can’t_ do it. And as long as I can’t, Jason can’t trust me. Because I’m letting the man who tortured him, who almost _killed_ him, get away.”

“Bruce—”

“Save it, Zatanna,” Bruce said, tired. “You don’t understand. Maybe you sympathize, but none of you understand _why_ I can’t do it. That’s the problem.”

Zatanna sighed. “All right. You’re right I don’t understand… but if anyone would, it would be the boy who fought by you for the last three years. Talk to him, Bruce.”

“Let’s get back to the matter at hand.”

“Right.”

She turned to Tim and took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.” Closing her eyes, she reached out to place one hand on his forehead and another on his stomach.

Soft light began radiating from the places she touched. With bated breath, Bruce watched as the glow slowly traveled along his body. 

Minutes passed in silence. Zatanna’s brow wrinkled in concentration, sweat beginning to bead down her forehead. Passing the ten-minute mark, her arms started trembling. Approaching fifteen, her eyes snapped open. Letting out a breath, she wiped the sweat from her temple. “It’s circulating,” she said. “That’s the best I can do. Whether or not his body manages to start regulating it… let’s hope for the best.”

Bruce nodded curtly. “Thank you.”

She shot him a small smile. “Anytime. Just… keep what I said in mind.”

He’d keep it in mind. It would probably rot there. The therapist had gotten around to diagnosing alexithymia* before Bruce had bailed from the sessions— Bruce and honest, upfront, emotionally vulnerable conversations just didn’t go together.

But— he inclined his head, the tiniest bit. If he could gather the courage, the resolve… he’d try.

#

It all came to a head when the alert came out: an Arkham breakout. Headed by none other than the Joker himself.

Commissioner Gordon was urgently barking orders into his walkie-talkie, the transmission of which was playing in the Cave while Bruce suited up, his whole body feeling like it had been submerged into ice.

Dick bounded into Cave. “Bruce—”

“I know.”

“It’s _him_ —”

“Yes.”

Dick was snapping the latches of his suit up within seconds. “So how are we doing this? He must have a grand finale planned like usual, the fucking bastard. You head him off and I ambush from behind— then we put the bastard down once and for all.”

“Dick.”

His son stilled his anxious bouncing until it was just a fine vibration, like that of a plucked string. He glanced up at Bruce with eyes so cold and hard— Bruce caught his breath. He felt nausea scraping at the back of his throat like a mouthful of glass. _Murderer’s eyes._

No. 

_Would be_ murderers’ eyes. _Could be_ murderer’s eyes. Bruce wouldn’t let that happen.

“We’re not killing the the Joker,” he said quietly.

Dick was perfectly, utterly still for a moment; unnatural for a body always in motion. Then he burst forward like the shot of a gun, fist finding Bruce’s collar. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hissed. “You’ve been sitting on your ass the last week— I chalked it up to dealing with the other kid— but I thought you knew what had to be done. I thought you fucking knew.”

“I’m going to beat,” Bruce growled, “ the Joker’s face into the ground.”

“And then you’re going to give him to a doctor so he can get back on his feet, break back out of Arkham and keep on killing people?”

“We’re not murderers, Dick. We’re not—”

“ _He almost killed my brother!_ ” Dick screamed, voice cracking. “Your _son!_ At least, that’s what I thought we were to you! But you’re going to keep on going— fuck, you would have kept on going in your dumb useless shitty fucking cycle forever even if we died, because we mean _jackshit_ to you! Because you care less about us, and more about your fucking mission!”

Bruce’s mouth fell open. He stared at Dick in mute horror. Gasping, “Of course not—”

“Then why are you still pretending like leaving him alive is an _option_?”

“Dick… Dick, son… I…” he swallowed painfully, clenching his eyes shut. Who was shaking harder? Dick, with the front of Bruce’s suit clenched tightly in his hand, or Bruce, trembling with awful vulnerability. He hated it, it felt like a gun barrel against his head, but his son thinking he didn’t care was _a shot to the gut._

“I… love… you. I love you, Dick. I love you and your brother. I would have _died_ if you had died. I would have killed him— I would have killed everyone. Don’t you get it? If I kill, I kill myself. Please, Dick. Don’t ever think… don’t _ever_ think I don’t… love you.”

Dick searched his face, eyes wide and desperate. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

“I can’t say it right,” Brue said hoarsely, feeling helpless and furious.

“Why can’t you see that you’re _saving_ Jason by getting rid of that monster?”

“I can’t become what I fight against,” Bruce said, and this at least left his throat easily. The one thing he’d been able to vow over and over to himself no matter when or where. “Killing… allowing someone else to do it for me… it’s the same as killing the Batman. Because Batman _can’t_ cross that line, no matter what.”

Dick was crying. “I think you’re wrong,” he said. He wiped at his eyes. “You’re going to be picking up the bodies behind him over and over again. And someday we won’t get so lucky. It’ll be Jason, or it’ll be me you have to bury.”

“Dick—” Bruce said, strangled.

Dick shook his head and said angrily, “You better keep that bastard away from me. Because if he gets in my sight— I’ll put him down myself.”

#

Bruce could read the truth off of every line of tension in Dick’s body. This was coming from the boy who’d left him to create his own name, because he’d thought Bruce’s methods were _too violent._ But he couldn’t condemn him for it— neither for that decision and even less for this one.

Bruce also knew Jason was behind him, silently listening in the shadows. He knew what happened next would be a turning point for them. Once the path was chosen, there would be no turning back.

Except the decision had already been made from the start and what happened next was clear from the beginning.

Batman caught the Joker.

He dug the clown’s face into gravel.

He broke his bones. He growled and roared and _raged_. He didn’t let the GCPD near— because this was _between me and him._ It always was.

“If you ever lay your hands on him _again_ ,” Bruce snarled, more animal than human, “ _I’ll cut them off_.”

The Joker could only giggle weakly, blood trickling out of his mouth. Bruce shook him hard. “You understand? Let me give you a little taste, so you remember.”

He took a batarang from his utility belt. Then he sawed the Joker’s right hand off.

His comms were silent. If Dick, Jason, Barbara and Alfred were watching, and there was no way they _weren’t_ , they watched the brutal scene in a tongue-tied mixture of horror and fascination. Or maybe Bruce just couldn’t hear them over the ringing in his head.

His vision was tunneling. The Joker’s grotesque face swam in front of his eyes, and all Bruce could feel was his rage. All he wanted to do was hurt this man who hurt his son. How many limbs could he cut off before the Joker ran the risk of bleeding out? Why stop— he could go on and on, the rage pounding through his blood urged him to do it—

He didn’t have to stop, he could just keep hurting this man, that’s what he _deserved_ —

The Joker’s hoarse, mad laughter broke him out of the haze.

_That’s what he wants._

Bruce would _never_ allow himself to become what the Joker wanted of him.

He grabbed the clown, now convulsing on the ground, and grappled down the building they’d been on. He threw him at the feet of the shocked GCPD.

Arriving back at the Cave, he saw Jason and Dick waiting for him. They tracked his stiff, jerky movements wordlessly, gazes immediately fixing on the blood splattered white hand he removed from the evidence pocket of his utility belt.

Abruptly, Jason turned away. Bruce watched him wheel towards the exit, feeling lost.

A hand clasping his shoulder had him jerk up in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed Dick approach.

“No matter what happens,” Dick said seriously, “I love you too, B.”

Bruce’s heart stuttered. He reached up to squeeze his son’s hand. “I’ll find a way,” he said quietly.

Dick smiled at him, something about the turn of his lips unbearably sad. Then he pulled away to follow Jason.

Several hours later, Bruce sat in the living room of Wayne Manor, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth. It flickered across his fingertips, making them glow a reddish color. He imagined the Joker’s blood on his hands and how it really didn’t bother him. It looked pretty. He wished he was a stronger man; that he could make a decision without lingering in this hopeless in-between, wishing to do one thing but bound by his conscience to the other.

Alfred cleared his throat behind him. “I daresay this is late even by your standards, Master Bruce.”

Bruce groaned and roused himself from the deep thoughtfulness weighing his limbs down. “What time is it, Alfred?” he asked, voice rough.

“Four am.”

“Hrgn.”

“Might I offer you some tea?”

Bruce glanced at the neatly prepared tray in the butler’s arms. He knew it was spiked with sleeping medication. At this rate, he really needed it.

“I promised them, Al’,” Bruce said, rubbing his forehead in an unusually human gesture. “I promised Dick and Jason I’d find a way to subdue the Joker, once and for all.”

Alfred set the tray down in front of him wordlessly.

“I don’t know how to do it without killing him,” Bruce said quietly.

“Well,” Alfred said, sounding almost reproachful, “you better figure it out quickly then, Master Bruce.”

#

It took a few moments for Bruce to open his eyes, blinking groggily. Someone was shaking him. He tried to sit up, blearily groaning, “Wha—”

“Wake up, wake up, B!”

Bruce squinted at his youngest. _Damn_ were Alfred’s sleeping pills strong.

“Wha’s it, Jason,” he asked.

“I’d be filming this as blackmail if it weren’t urgent. Come on!”

Urgent? Jason didn’t seem hurt. He seemed excited. He seemed somewhat anxious too, but only in an anticipatory way. He wasn’t glaring at Bruce either, so Bruce took it as a win. Stumbling out of bed at Jason’s insistent tugging, he followed him down to the Cave.

Dick’s voice reached his ears, quiet and measured as when talking to a spooked child or victim. Bruce realized immediately what had happened.

“He’s awake, isn’t he?” he stated. 

He ducked behind the changing stations to don Batman, then strode towards the medbay. He pressed his palm against the glass door. It slid open. Dick, as Nightwing, nearly knocked into him on his way out. Behind his white-outs, the vigilante’s gaze was grave. 

“B,” he said.

“What is it N?” From the corner of his eyes, he discerned Tim, hunched on the bed. Awake and looking moments away from a panic attack.

“Code 1 breach,” Nightwing said.

Bruce stiffened. His gaze snapped to Tim on the bed, his assessment of the boy being rewritten within seconds. He wasn’t just dealing with a _homo magi_ , someone with unexplainable mystical powers— but someone with a much more dangerous power, the _most_ dangerous: knowledge.

However it had happened, Tim Drake had gleaned their most well-kept secret. He knew their secret identities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Alexythemia = subclinical phenomenon involving a lack of emotional awareness or, more specifically, difficulty in identifying and describing feelings— Neuroeconomics (Second Edition), 2014
> 
> BOY was this a monster chapter to write— 9k words of Bruce's angsting!! Writing a Bruce that is both rational and tolerable in his emotional constipation is probably the hardest thing ever. Honestly think I kind of copped out by giving him an actual diagnosable personality trait, because I gave up on trying to find other ways to rationalize him. Sorry if he seems OOC. I'm kind of incapable of writing actual, like, BAD relationships between the batfam, I'm just too much of a sucker for that (soft) family dynamic (that's not to say I won't serve out conflict like a five course meal 😊). We do NOT tolerate Tom King's absolute fucking stupid Batdad in THIS house, oh no. 
> 
> That being said, as you might notice, we're definitely not out of the woods yet. Timmy's got his work cut out for him, huh?
> 
> Anyways, thanks for the amazing response to the last chapter!! And to BrittanyRose1 for being an absolute sweetheart (as usual). I hope you enjoyed the chapter. 
> 
> Sit tight, hope for the best— we'll get through these times like we've gotten through all the others. Keep your head up!!! ✊♡
> 
> Edit: it has come to my attention that in the previous version of this chapter, in which I originally had Alfred commenting that Jason might have bipolar disorder, I was portraying the condition in a very inaccurate and harmful way. For anyone who read that and felt hurt or upset, I'm very sorry. It was insufficient research that led to it—that, and a false perception of the disorder that I have now had to rectify, and I assure you that a mistake like this will not happen again. 
> 
> For everyone who read the line and was unaware of its inaccuracy: bipolar disorder causes extreme mood swings that last from weeks, to years. Jason's rapid mood shifts are more reminiscent of a hormonal teenagers reaction trauma. A quick diagnosis like this is therefore wrong. Thank you to Alaneii for bringing this to my attention.


	29. Dead Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim hatches a plan.

Tim woke up feeling like he’d been trampled by a hoard of elephants.

Everything _hurt_. His limbs were like stretched taffy. He was pretty sure his _bones_ ached. Had he fallen asleep for fifty years? There’s no way he should hurt this bad!

He took in his surroundings blearily. He was in a small room in a rather uncomfortable bed. It looked like an infirmary, with heavy duty medical gear neatly stored in easy-to-reach distance. A monitor blinked by his head. Everything was surprisingly high-tech, glowing a faint, pleasant blue. He’d never been in a hospital like this before.

Biting his lip to keep back a pained groan, he swung his feet to the ground. Memories were trickling in and Tim was beginning to get anxious. He carefully removed the IV drip and got to his feet.

First thing’s first; he had to figure out where he was and how he’d gotten there. And then how much damage control he had to do.

Tim stumbled towards the door. It was a sleek plane of glass, of a cloudy color, to prevent anyone from looking out or in. He really _hadn’t_ ever seen a hospital this high-tech. He thought back, scouring his spotty memory.

His recollection stopped somewhere buried beneath the rubble, after he’d used up his magic transfiguring oxygen. He thought maybe he’d woken up sometime after that, but the memory was lost in a haze of pain and panic. 

Tim tried to push open the door. It wouldn’t budge. Then he tried digging his fingernails into the ridges of the doorway, and he knew already before he did it, it would be futile. He did it anyways. Several of his nails broke, blood making his hands slippery.

He was halfway into a panic attack, chest heaving and hands shaking, when the door slid open. Tim was knocked down onto his ass. Eyes blown wide, he stared into the face of an equally surprised Nightwing.

The vigilante was kneeling by his side in an instant, voice soft and reassuring. “Hey, Tim, breathe, breathe with me.”

Tim gasped, choking. Nightwing stroked his back. “Come on, in… out. Breathe with me, in… out…”

Tim tried to match his breathing to the vigilante’s, panting shallowly. Nightwing’s hand on his back grounded him. Slowly, he came back down to earth. He stared at the first Robin, lost.

“Better?” Nightwing asked.

Before Tim could reply, the door slid open again. His thoughts, still echoing with questions and uncertainty, froze at the sight of Jason at the doorway in civilian clothes and a domino. “You’re awake!” he exclaimed.

“Little Bird, get B,” Nightwing ordered.

“I need to talk to Tim,” Jason said determinedly.

“Rob,” Nightwing growled, “now.”

“J-Ja—” Tim rasped. He tried to crawl forward, but Nightwing kept him in place with a gentle hand. His eyes however, were sharp. Sending one last warning look to Jason, who rolled his eyes and wheeled back out, he turned to Tim.

“Can you tell me your name and your birthday, buddy?” he asked.

Tim stared at him for a few seconds, uncomprehending. Nightwing repeated the question and Tim shook himself awake. “Tim Drake, the 14th of December, Nightwing— what happened? Where am I?”

Nightwing led him back towards the bed. “We found you under the wreckage of a building in Ethiopia. You’re at one of our bases. Don’t worry, we’ll explain everything in due time. Just sit down— can I get you something to drink?” 

Before Tim could reply, a glass of water was being pressed into his hands. He gulped it down gratefully.

“Tim,” Nightwing said as he set the glass down, “can you tell me what you remember?”

Tim paused. This was… risky territory. He’d known when he’d pulled out his wand the first time that it meant giving up his secret. He did it anyways, because there was no way the Statute of Secrecy was going to stop him from saving Jason. And if he was in Batman’s lair (his mind raced with possibilities— honestly, if this was any other context, he’d be _thrilled_ ), he had to reveal everything. Trying to keep secrets from the Batman was pointless.

Digging his knuckles into the bedspread in discomfort, Tim said quietly, “Maybe I should… wait? For everyone to be here before I start?”

“Who’s everyone?”

“What?”

“Who are we waiting for? You can just tell me.”

Tim cast Nightwing a confused glance from beneath his bangs. “Aren’t we… didn’t you tell Robin to get Batman?”

“Oh, that— yes, I did send my associate to get him.”

“Associate?” Tim frowned. “Is he no longer Robin?”

“Who’s no longer Robin?”

“That guy in the wheelchair.” 

Nightwing gave him a blank look. “What guy in the wheelchair?”

“Jason?”

Tim clapped his hands over his mouth. He peeked up at Nightwing. The vigilante was just watching him through narrowed eyes. “You almost slipped up, didn’t you,” he stated, “back when Rob first came in.”

Tim stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. “I… didn’t mean to say that.”

“But it’s what you kept calling Robin back in the warehouse.”

If it was possible, Tim’s heart stopped a second time. “He… remembered that?”

“He wasn’t sure if he was remembering correctly and he didn’t tell Batman. But he told me. He wanted to check if we really were dealing with a Code 1 breach without alerting Batman… do you know what a Code 1 breach is, Tim?”

Tim nodded hesitantly.

“Say it.”

“… identity compromise?”

Nightwing nodded to himself. “So that really _is_ what we’re dealing with. Jason might’ve wanted to spare you Batman’s scrutiny, but I’m sorry, Tim. I differ to the Bat’s judgement here.”

He got up; a fluid, powerful movement. Clapping a hand on Tim’s shoulder, he said, “Don’t worry,” in a light tone, which did nothing to actually ease Tim’s nerves. He strode towards the door.

Just in that moment, it slid open and Batman— THE _ACTUAL_ BATMAN, METERS AWAY FROM TIM— entered.

Nightwing said something to him lowly, but Tim couldn’t hear over the sudden ringing in his ears. He dug his fingernails into the bedspread and tried not to pass out.

Then suddenly, Jason drove his wheelchair into the back of Batman’s knees. 

It wasn’t something that was visible by any outward reaction of Batman’s. In fact, the only thing indicating it had happened was a sudden _thump_ and Jason loudly exclaiming, “ _Jesus_ , old man, move your ginormous butt out of the way, will you?”

A moment later he was forcefully shoving past Batman, who mouthed ‘ginormous butt’ in what could have been horror (it was hard to tell since his expression didn’t actually change). Meanwhile Nightwing muttered something that might possibly have been “only _my_ butt is big enough to block a doorway” (—of course Tim, halfway into hyperventilating, didn’t actually notice this; it _might’ve_ happened though, maybe.)

Then abruptly Tim’s attention zeroed onto Jason, sitting right in front of him. 

“Hey, Tim,” he said softly, “you’re okay. Everything’s gonna be okay. Just… focus on me, all right? Relax.”

“Y-You got out...” Tim stuttered, reaching forward blindly.

Jason caught his hand. (Tim could freak out about that later.) “I did. You did too.”

Tim took a deep, shuddering breath. He let it out again, and felt his heartrate slow. Jason smiled at him. “There we go.”

“Please don’t… please don’t be mad.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I know who you are,” Tim whispered.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Batman suggested in the tone of voice that made it not an actual suggestion. Tim jumped up, alarmed. Jason turned to glare at his mentor.

“We’re not going to do anything to you, Tim,” he reassured. “Nobody’s mad.”

Tim scanned their faces. True to Jason’s word, none of them seemed viable to pounce on him angrily. Nightwing shot him an encouraging smile. Jason squeezed his hand. Batman… sort of stood there, but it was only 60% menacing instead of 100%.

Tim closed his eyes and gathered himself. “The beginning… I guess the beginning was the night my parents took me to Haly’s Circus to see the Flying Grayson’s… the night Dick’s parents fell.”

Nightwing inhaled sharply.

“You took that picture with me, remember?” Tim said quietly. “You said you’d dedicate the performance to me.”

Slowly, Dick nodded. “I remember. You were so tiny, Timmy… how old were you— three?”

“Four,” Tim said.

“I forgot about that… you saw—?” Dick swallowed hard.

Tim nodded, digging his teeth into his lip. He’d woken up screaming every night for months after the incident. Jack and Janet had paid for about two months of therapy and promptly fucked off to Malaysia. It was the last time they’d had anything resembling a family outing.

“During the show,” Tim continued resolutely, “I saw you perform a legendary move. The quadruple summersault.”

Tim told the story— from piecing together the vigilantes’ identities to being sent to a boarding school in Britain after his parents discovered he was sneaking through Gotham. He told them about receiving his Hogwarts letter and nervously explained about magic and the Statute of Secrecy. Then he got to his visions and how he’d snuck out of school to try to rescue Jason. How he’d failed to get them out in time and cast a shield charm. How he’d burned through his magical reserves transfiguring oxygen while they’d choked beneath dirt and stone.

“I’m… I’m pretty sure I used it all up,” Tim said, looking at his hands mournfully. “There’s no way I didn’t do permanent damage to my magical core with that move.”

Silence met his proclamation. He looked up to see shell-shocked expressions. Even Batman seemed taken aback.

He shifted nervously. “Guys?”

Finally, Jason shook his head. “You’re one crazy motherfucker,” he said.

“Language, Master Jason,” a sharp, refined voice cut in. Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne’s legendary butler, pushed through the crowd of vigilantes with a soup laden tray.

“You were listening in, Al’?” Dick asked.

“Of course,” Alfred said, setting the tray down in front of Tim. He gave the boy a warm smile, handing him a bowl of steaming soup. Tim’s stomach growled appreciatively. 

“I daresay young Timothy is still recovering from this strenuous ordeal. Let us allow him some food and rest,” he determined.

It was enough to break the other three from their stupor. Jason clapped him on the back. “Get some rest, Timmers. You’ve done good.”

Dick ruffled his hair. He made his way to the door. Batman— Bruce, stayed a little while longer. Jason shot him a look at the doorway but Bruce raised his hands in an “ _I’m harmless_ ” gesture that seemed to mean something to them because Jason nodded and let Dick wheel him out.

Alfred was tidying something up in the corner. Bruce knelt down in front of Tim, who had clenched his hands tightly in his lap. He looked at the Caped Crusader nervously.

“Tim,” he said roughly. A large, gloved hand came up to squeeze his shoulder. “You saved my son’s life. _Thank you_.”

It hit Tim full force in that moment. _He had succeeded. He saved Jason._

Through teary eyes, he smiled up at Bruce, whose mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly to smile back.

#

Alfred woke him from his impromptu nap— which then turned into six hours of sleep— for dinner. Tim was surprised when he was led to an elevator and taken up into the Manor. Flustered, he took a seat at the dining table, where Bruce, Dick and Jason were already waiting.

Tim was on his Best Behavior, displaying perfect Drake decorum— although he seemed the only one bothering with dining etiquette. Both Dick and Jason had their elbows on the table, spoke and laughed with full mouths, stole food from each other’s and Bruce’s plate. Bruce’s table manors were better— he used his silverware as was intended at least (Jason’s spoon had quickly been repurposed into a pea launcher, Dick’s knife into a shield), but he was nothing like Janet and Jack with their perfect posture and elegant movements. 

In fact, the Waynes saw Tim’s careful manners and decided he needed to lighten up. Confused and slightly aghast, Tim found himself tugged into a game of ‘steal the salt shaker from under Bruce’s nose’. Bruce, pretending to not know what they were doing, innocently rebuffed each attempt by intercepting the sneaking hand with the salad bowl or adding more salt to his meal. By the end his food was so salty, every bite evoked a wince.

And somehow, Tim found himself beneath the table, crawling stealthily towards Bruce while Dick balanced precariously on the chandelier above the table and Jason distracted Bruce with a nonsensical conversation about rubber ducks.

Focused completely on the task at hand, Tim did not notice as a throat was cleared pointedly or how Dick muttered, “Oh shit, Al’—”

He _did_ hear the loud crash as Dick fell from the chandelier onto the table, but paid no further notice.

“Dick!” Bruce exclaimed while Jason dissolved into loud laughter.

“Now _really_ , Master Richard,” Alfred said disapprovingly, stepping forward to help Dick remove his elbow from a bowl of cranberry sauce.

“You surprised me when you came in, Al’!” he whined. “I swear you’re a ninja.”

“I most certainly am not, Master Richard,” Alfred said. “And where is our esteemed guest? You haven’t scared him off with your antics, have you?”

“Tim?” Bruce called, startled he had momentarily forgotten about the boy. His seat was empty.

Suddenly, a messy head of dark hair popped up from beneath the table. “Here!” Tim declared, holding the salt shaker above his head triumphantly. “I got it!”

He noticed the silence, and then he noticed the scene he had just entered— Dick sprawled on the table in a mess of broken plates and food, Bruce on his feet, Alfred looking displeased. His cheeks colored. “Mr. Pennyworth, sir, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Before Tim could devolve into panicked apologies, Jason was whooping and grabbing the salt shaker from his hand— now lowered in embarrassed— to raise it up again, shouting, “We did it, we did it!”

Dick jumped off the table excitedly, making cranberries fly off of him and splatter Bruce. “All _right_ , Timmers!”

The boys did a little victory dance, grabbing Tim to join them. The small smile rose back onto Tim’s face.

Then Dick was sent up to his room to clean himself up and Bruce, Jason and Tim given washcloths to get rid of the mess. “Why do _I_ have to—” Bruce began, just to be interrupted by a stern look.

“Don’t think you can wiggle out of taking responsibility when I _know_ you let this happen, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, pressing the cloth into the grimacing billionaire’s hands.

Half an hour later, Jason and Tim trudged towards Dick’s room. Dick, in fresh clothes and hair damp from a shower, was packing a suitcase.

“I can’t believe you had the audacity to fall into the food,” Jason said as he kicked the door open with a cast, “and then make us clean up your mess.”

Tim shuffled into the room behind Jason. He stood to the side awkwardly as Jason rolled towards Dick's suitcase. “Are those three boxes of Lucky Charms? Seriously?”

“It’s power food,” Dick said, tossing a couple Superman boxers into the suitcase.

“That is the furthest thing from power food possible,” Jason argued with a huff. “How have your bones not crumbled from vitamin deficiency yet?”

“It’s my innate amazingness,” Dick claimed, puffing out his chest. Jason rolled his eyes and punched him in the arm. Dick made wounded noise and caught a struggling Jason in a headlock, grinding his knuckles into his scalp. “That’ll teach you to mess with someone powered by Lucky Charms,” he grinned as Jason tried to pat down his now wildly flying stands of hair.

“Excuse me, Dick,” Tim said. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Titans mission,” Dick explained, zipping up the suitcase. “I should be back in about two weeks.”

Jason watched, silent now, as he set his suitcase at the door. Dick turned back towards them, gaze catching Jason’s. His expression was serious. “But I can be back within hours if you need me.” 

Jason broke eye contact. Dick wasn’t having it. He strode to his younger brother and knelt down in front of him. “Jason, call me, all right? For anything. Whether you need me to come back or not— and trust me, I _want_ to be there if you need help.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason said in a gruff, choked voice.

Dick sent him a small smile and ruffled his hair. “Don’t be so hard on Bruce, yeah? He’s trying.”

Jason scowled and looked away. “I… can’t just pretend everything’s okay, Dick,” he said, swallowing hard. “Like it’s enough. When we all know the _Joker_ ,” he spit the name out like poison, “is going to back out there again, in like, a year _tops_ , and then it’s going to be the same thing all over again. What— was cutting his hand off supposed to stop him? Well tough, it won’t! Bruce might be trying, but it’s not enough!”

“Cutting his hand off?” Tim blurted out, looking back and forth between the two. He felt uncomfortable, like he was intruding on a personal conversation, but on the other hand— _what?_

Jason scratched the back of his neck, agitated. “There was an Arkham breakout a couple days ago,” he said reluctantly. “Bruce apprehended the Clown and… beat him up. Cut off his right hand. It’s still in the Batcave, I’m pretty sure.”

A suffocating silence met this explanation. 

Sighing, Dick changed the subject. “Anyways… Jay, you _tell_ me if anything happens. And keep it up in physio! Your doctor says you can get out of the wheelchair in a couple of days if you keep working hard! Don’t get discouraged. Tim,” he said, turning to him, “make sure he’s doing his physio, okay? You’ll be back to kicking ass in no time, Jason!”

After extracting promises from each of them to be on their best behavior (winking as he said this) and not to skimp on physical therapy, he headed downstairs. Bruce and Alfred were already waiting, neither blinking an eye as Dick slid down the banister and dismounted with a flamboyant flip.

“You have everything? Civilian clothes? At least two different disguises? Have you restocked your utility belt? Snacks? Batteries for the comms?”

“Yes, yes, triple yes— stop mother henning, Bruce,” Dick said.

“Do you have extra underwear?” Jason added, voice pitched high and squeaky. “Condoms? Lube? You never know what might happen on these missions—”

“That’s quite enough, Master Jason,” Alfred cut in, stopping Dick from lunging after him in another noogie attempt. “We must be getting to the airport before Master Dick misses his flight.”

“You don’t _really_ get up to—” Bruce began, sounding horrified.

“ _No_ , B, he was just joking. Don’t show me the slideshow again, please.”

Hugging Jason, Bruce and even Tim (!) goodbye, Dick followed Alfred to the car. 

Tim looked at Jason after they left, unsure of what to do. The other boy seemed rather forlorn, watching the car grow smaller in the distance.

He brightened soon afterwards, offering Tim a tour of the Batcave. Tim, who was already feeling physically worn out from the Saltshaker Heist and climbing the stairs, was not in a million years going to deny _that_ , so the boys made their way down to the Cave.

Tim took it all in with wide eyes, listening to Jason’s dramatic retellings of past battles, admiring the displayed memorabilia.

They stopped at the Batcomputer, which was of course attraction #1 for Tim. They took turns trying to guess Bruce’s password to the classified files— not very seriously, since “bootyshakerextrordinaire” and “blackpinkinyourarea” were among the guesses.

They had just managed to set the screen saver as a picture of Wonder Woman carrying Batman on her back, when the man himself appeared.

Bruce, still suited up, looked between a perfectly blank faced Tim, Jason suppressing a grin and the random computer game Jason had pulled up in a second’s notice.

“Jason,” he sighed, “I told you not to download _Fireboy and Watergirl: Elements_ on the Batcomputer.”

“You’re just mad you can’t beat my high score.”

Bruce sighed again, louder. He turned to Tim, whose inner monologue was currently a freak out between lying to Batman _(Batman!)_ and apologizing for changing his screen saver, wallpaper, and list of contacts to all be Wonder Woman themed.

“Tim, I was hoping to speak to you about your magic,” Bruce said.

Tim stiffened, sending a panicked glance at Jason. “Um, yes, sir, about that— I would like to answer your questions, but, um, I have to ask you not to, you know, spread the information around, because it’s illegal and—”

“I understand, Tim. I’d actually like to talk about your magical core.”

“Oh.” Tim deflated. “That’s, uh… that’s used up.”

“Really? Does it feel like that?”

Tim frowned. His magic wasn’t buzzing beneath his skin in the way he’d come to be familiar with, but— he reached down in the meditative way he’d practiced over the summer.

His core… didn’t feel empty. He tugged on it, and after a while, _something_ responded. Thick and slow, like molasses, it trickled through his blood stream. It didn’t feel familiar. It was dense and clumsy in his control, but the _taste_ — Tim couldn’t have explained to a Muggle. But it tasted of magic.

His eyes shot open. “It’s– I think it’s–” he exclaimed excitedly, and then like a dam breaking, the magic pooled at his fingers, the pressure building up to almost painful proportions. He tried to cast a _Lumos_ , use up some of the suddenly pressing, insistent energy.

Bright white light shot from his palm. It streaked through the air like lightning and hit the edge of a training mat. The smell of burning rubber followed.

“Holy shit!” Jason shouted. He wheeled over to the mats. “There’s a fucking hole in here!”

Tim and Bruce came over to gape at it. “Well,” Bruce said slowly, “I suppose that answers the question of whether you can use it.”

“I… that’s not supposed to happen.”

“I can imagine. Does it feel like your own magic?”

Tim’s brows furrowed. “Like my own… no, it doesn’t, actually. It’s–… it’s like something I’ve felt before but forgotten. Like a dream.” Tim laughed awkwardly. “I don’t think that makes a lot of sense. But it’s not… how it used to be, that’s for sure.”

In fact, the most apt description for the strange magic that had briefly coursed through his veins was _déjà vu_. A smell you’d smelt before but couldn’t place. Tim felt a dull ache of loss in his chest, knowing his own magic had been completely spent in the rescue, but at the same time… it wasn’t _really_ gone, not completely. The new power, humming full of restrained destructive force, in his body, was foreign… but not unfamiliar, strangely.

“I might have an answer for that,” Bruce said.

Tim looked up at him questioningly. Bruce explained about the foreign magic that had been in his system and Zatanna’s intervention. Slowly, it dawned on Tim.

“It was the _Evanesco_. I vanished carbon atoms to make oxygen, and in doing so I turned them into pure magical energy— the magical equivalent of Einstein’s mass-energy equivalence theory. I must have been generating huge amounts of magic… that had nowhere to go but back into my body.”

Jason whistled. “So instant recharge, huh? Neat.”

Tim frowned at his hand, remembering the feeling of the magic pooling uncontrollably, charged with so much energy it nearly burned beneath his skin. “I can’t regulate it though. It’s dangerous,” he realized, letting his hand drop. “I can’t perform a single spell without running the risk of hurting myself or others.”

“Better than not having any magic though,” Jason pointed out, nudging him gently. “You can learn to regulate it, can’t you?”

Tim stared at the still steaming hole in the mats. “I’ll have to.”

#

Throughout the next few days, Tim got used to living with his childhood heroes— _still_ his heroes of course, even if seeing the Batman nearly tripping over a spoon hadn’t quite fit his mental image of Gotham’s mythical protector until he’d seen it with his own eyes.

Tim never thought that magic would take the backburner to _anything_ , but compared to life with the Waynes, he found it downgraded a couple of rungs on the relevancy ladder. That might’ve appeared paradoxical, but life with the Waynes was a _different_ level of weird. Especially for Tim, trying to find a spot within it. Not a bad weird though— Tim probably enjoyed the chaos more than he should (he blamed that on Fred and George). It was nice, _great_ even, once he managed to stop stuttering whenever in Bruce’s vicinity. It was always loud— Tim loved that. He found himself dreading the summer, where he’d have to stay cooped up in silent, oppressive Drake Manor, knowing this one was right next door.

Tim took his self-appointed job of overseeing Jason’s physio very seriously. Each morning without fail, he was waiting for Jason to accompany him to his session. He had his own physical therapy to attend too; his limbs were weak after the week-long coma and the muscle he’d worked hard for was all but gone.

It frustrated him to no end. Tim had always had trouble putting on muscle. He threw himself into the recovery process vigorously.

Bruce noticed. Inspired by the young boy’s avidity, he personally oversaw parts of his physical therapy, prescribing several additional exercises. It wasn’t that Tim didn’t enjoy doing the katas Bruce showed him (he did), he was just… uncertain why sword-wielding was necessary for recovery.

When he told this to Jason, the older boy just laughed. “He’s incapable of _not_ training every tragic young blue-eyed, black-haired child he comes across.”

Tim didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but he didn’t press further. Jason's voice was tight in an unreadable jumble of emotions and Tim knew when to tread lightly.

He got very good at reading the signs in fact. Jason’s moods could change as rapidly as tsunamis— one moment, everything was fine. Then the tide was pulling back, and the next; all hell broke loose. Tim learned to read Jason’s oncoming breakdowns like codes on a computer. They mostly happened during physio, when, aggravated by a lack of progress, his patience snapped and he lost his temper; throwing stuff around, punching walls, breaking things. The sudden temper tantrums weren’t exclusive to therapy sessions though. On good days, he might go the entire day without one. On bad days, he had a hairline trigger, needing just the slightest thing, or sometimes nothing at all, to set him off. 

Other times he’d suddenly get quiet, thoughtful— that meant he was remembering something. In that case he should either be distracted or left alone.

Unfortunately, Bruce’s presence, well-meaning as it was, mostly served to trigger these fallouts. Tim felt bad for him, but at the same time, did what was necessary to calm Jason down. Which usually meant locking Bruce out of the room.

For some reason, Jason took comfort in curling up in his dark closet, pillows and covers lining the floor to make it comfy and soft. One night, before he’d been cleared to get out of the wheelchair, Tim had heard him screaming in the room next door. Bruce was on patrol. Alfred was no doubt on his way, but Tim was faster. He burst in to find Jason shivering and crying, curled up in a fetal position on the bed.

Jason had grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip when he’d tried to touch him (he’d have bruises the next day), and then he’d gestured to the wheelchair, unable to speak. Tim helped him into it, and then back out after he wheeled himself to the closet entrance.

“Don’t leave,” Jason had muttered. Tim had resonated with these words far too deeply. He sat down in the pitch black closet, hands clenched into fists, trying to control his breathing.

He let Jason clutch his wrist, but didn’t otherwise touch the boy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to find some way to be comforting. It was just that he was trying to repress his own rising panic.

Eventually, Jason’s choked breathing tapered off into deep, exhausted breaths. He continued holding Tim’s wrist, felt it shaking. “You’re claustrophobic, aren’t you,” he stated.

Claustrophobic? He hadn’t been, not before… but nearly suffocating, trapped beneath a collapsed warehouse was probably enough to do that to a person.

Tim jerkily nodded, realizing too late Jason probably couldn’t tell in the dark. He knew the answer anyways. “You want to get out?”

“No, I’m—” Tim inhaled unsteadily, “good. I’m good.”

“You don’t sound so good.”

Tim tried for some reassuring sound, but it came out more like a squeak.

Jason shifted closer to him, their shoulders pressed together. He slid the closet door open by a thin slit. The moon shown in through the window, illuminating the crack in the dark.

Sometime during the night, Tim found himself laying down, the narrow beam of light falling across his closed eyes. He chest felt lighter, knowing he could open his eyes any time and see it there. He fell asleep like that.

It became a common occurrence. He would catch Jason’s gaze; Jason would have the Look— something about the tightness of his expression, the hard set of his jaw, how dark his eyes got. And Tim would know. He’d distract whoever they were with so Jason could hobble away. They’d meet back up in the closet.

Jason and Tim both had something in common; had had it even before the shared trauma. Both were fiercely independent, solitary creatures who had grown up with only themselves to rely on. And both feared being abandoned like a knife to the heart.

So while battling inner demons— Jason the memories, bitterness and terror; monsters coming to attack him from outside the safe space of his closet, and Tim the very restricting pressure squeezing his lungs together within it— it was nice not to be alone.

They’d talk. Mostly about inane topics, but sometimes conversation would swerve to more serious territory. 

“I totally ripped Dick a new one about snitching,” Jason remarked one time. Tim could just barely see his outline against the opposite wall with the faint light streaming in from the crack in the door.

“Oh yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah. I thought I heard you saying my name back in the warehouse… but. I guess I was scared for you. B gets kinda paranoid ’bout our identities, which— I mean, makes sense. But you dragged me across the entire floor of the warehouse and I could _see_ the bomb. I knew we weren’t gonna make it and you still wouldn’t leave me. I didn’t wanna tell him and then have him freak and— I dunno. Call Martian Manhunter to wipe your memories or sum’. Told Dick to keep it lowkey, first try and confirm I really _was_ remembering correctly, get all the facts straight. Then he went and snitched, first thing. You can rest assured I have him a good dressing down for that.”

Tim snorted, able to imagine the scene. Jason, still in his wheelchair, tugging a pouting Dick by the ear.

“He’s weird about the Big Man’s orders sometimes,” Jason continued, voice tinged with bitterness. “He doesn’t _always_ listen… but B always has the last word. In the end, B’s the commander, and he’s the soldier.”

“He probably made the right call with the identity breach,” Tim said carefully. “It could have been much more serious.”

Jason groaned. “Sure. I’m not saying he was wrong in that instance. I’m just saying. He _understands_ why the Joker’s gotta die. But he won’t do it ’cuz B won’t. Don’t even get me _started_ on B. Fuckin’ asshole.”

Jason sounded angry, but Tim knew that wasn’t actually it. He wasn’t angry, he was hurt. Jason’s hands were trembling from where he sat leaning against the wall.

In a smaller voice, he continued. “He promised he’d take care of him. Put him out of commission for good— non-lethally. B never breaks a promise, but I know he’s gonna break this one. ’Cuz it’s impossible.”

Tim shifted forward. “Maybe it’s not,” he said quietly.

“Huh?”

“Impossible. It’s not. I mean, c’mon. You’re _Robin_ , he’s _Batman_. Nothing’s impossible, not if you work together.”

“Don’t spout that kind of fairytale bullshit. Batman’s some sort of symbol, symbol of justice or whatnot— but in the end the symbol’s useless if it can’t keep the people _safe_.”

“You have to believe in him one last time, Jason. He’s going to find out a way to stop the Joker—”

“I _do_ believe in him, that’s the point, that’s why it hurts goddammit, because I still believe even though I _know_ he’s gonna fail again.”

“He’s not! He’s not, and I’m going to make sure of it.”

“Uh, what? Timbo, I don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re not exactly in a position to go around beating bad guys up—”

“Didn’t we just establish that’s not a long-term solution? No, I’ll find a different way.”

“It’s not your promise to keep, Tim. You don’t have to keep try’na save me. I don’t need—”

“You need someone to take care of the Joker. Not just you— the whole of Gotham _city_ needs him to sit nice and harmless in a cell for the rest of his life. So let’s do it. You, Bruce, me. It’s _all_ of our promise to keep, because that’s the responsibility you took on yourself when you became symbols… and me, because I want to, and that’s enough.”

His eyes glinted in the dim light, hard and resolute. They didn’t waver, never leaving Jason’s. The older boy felt a breath leave his body. “You’re serious,” he said, half disbelieving, half in awe.

“Dead serious.”

A grin spread across Jason’s face. “I guess you and I would both know about that better than most.”

His posture suddenly shifted, voice becoming awkward and embarrassed. “I never really thanked you for that. Uh, saving me, I mean. So, um. Thanks.”

Tim couldn’t help the laugh that left him. “No biggie.”

#

“So this is what I’m thinking,” Tim said, slamming his hands down on the table. Both Bruce and Jason jumped. They exchanged a look.

Jason mouthed, “Has he slept?”

Bruce shrugged helplessly.

They turned back to Tim, who had begun to pace.

“Stopping the Joker from _actually_ escaping Arkham is impossible. Either because he manipulates some psychiatrist, a freak accident happens, someone breaks him out, there’s a corrupt guard, or maybe there’s no corrupt guard but the door just _happens_ to be open— whatever. There are too many variables. It’s frankly ridiculous. We need a way to remotely put him out of commission the moment he steps out of Arkham. What are ways to put someone out of commission? First, I thought seizures—”

“Wait, what?” Jason started.

“Then I thought, ‘well, seizures cause brain damage’ and maybe some of us have moral objections to that, even if beating people up also gives brain damage, but whatever.”

“He’s calling you out,” Jason stage whispered to Bruce.

“Second thing I thought of— sleep. Have some sort of chip in him that automatically sedates him if he leaves. Put it in his brain or something so he can’t remove it. At least, not without giving _himself_ brain damage. That would be self inflicted, so not our problem.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Sadly, putting him to sleep could quickly be counteracted by someone shaking him awake— I don’t know _who_ would actually do something like that, but you never know. Which is how I got to idea three: prevent him from waking up.”

“… uh, death?”

“Nope. I’m talking sleep paralysis. Which is basically the mind waking up, but the body being unable to.”

“You want to induce sleep paralysis,” Bruce said slowly. “Remotely.”

“Exactly.”

“Through a chip in his brain.”

“That he hopefully tries to remove and gives him brain damage!” Jason added cheerfully.

Bruce slowly shook his head. “Tim, that’s…”

“I’m thinking,” Tim bulldozed over him resolutely, “we combine science and magic. Either one alone wouldn’t do the trick. Together— we can make it work. Which means, well obviously this is one level of illegal, but using magic it’ll be double illegal. If anyone with connections to the Wizarding world discovers it they’ll probably, I don’t know, suck out my soul or something.”

“Hold up—”

“No, actually, let’s not dwell on that.”

“You said ‘suck out your soul’ like that’s a real thing with real implications—”

“Changing the subject,” Tim said loudly. “This is how sleep paralysis works. Cholinergic sleep “on” neural populations are hyperactivated, while serotonergic sleep “off” neural populations are underactivated. That means that the cells that send the signals to wake the body up, the serotonergic neural populations, can’t overcome the signals sent by the cells keeping the body asleep. We can chemically induce this process.* We can even build an internalized processor that allows the procedure to be controlled remotely. The only problem is making it small enough, and implanting it in the right place without actually cutting his head open and performing surgery, which I don’t think any of us are qualified for.”

“I don’t see why that’s stopping us,” Jason muttered petulantly.

“That’s where magic comes in. Shrinking runes. Locating runes— which are arguably a little bit iffy and probably not very accurate when it comes to navigating an actual _brain_ , but I can tinker with them. Until we have a finished product we can hopefully just inject via ear canal or something— and _voilà_. Joker goes night-night any time he leaves Arkham.”

Tim caught his breath. He looked to Bruce, who was frowning, arms crossed. His heart beat in his throat. He’d spent the remainder of the last day and the night tinkering with these hypotheticals, calculating, planning. 

The deciding moment.

Bruce slowly leaned forward. “I can work this.”

Tim’s shoulders slumped in relief. He caught Jason’s equally exhilarated eyes.

“You mean _we_ can work with this, old man,” he said. Bruce seemed startled by the genuine grin aimed at him. Enough so, he didn’t protest when Jason said, “This is a team effort.”

#

The plan was finalized within the next day. Advantages of having two workaholic geniuses obsessing over the same thing.

After a forced recuperation period (“What do you _mean_ Alfred is issuing a 24 hour coffee ban?!”), it was time for stage two of the preparations for the officially dubbed Project Break Into Arkham And Hopefully Give The Joker Brain Damage (thanks Jason).

Both Tim and Jason had to somehow regain at least 60% of their mobility back within the next week. In Tim’s case, he had to put on more muscle than he’d had prior to the Incident. The plan depended on it.

Tim worried a bit for Jason, whose mindset was so unstable when it came to therapy progress— but in the end, his concern was misplaced. With the goal in mind, Jason was more tenacious than ever. Bruce started overseeing his training sessions again— forced his way in to be exact, and Tim let him, because sometimes Jason went overboard training and no one else could get him to stop and take a break.

Tim, too, was busy with the most intense training he’d ever received. With probably the most badass instructor he’d ever had— Barbara Motherfucking Gordon. Previous Batgirl by night, current legend of Gotham city by day.

“Your GothamAlert program is amazing—” was Tim’s greeting the first time he saw her. She was sitting next the training mats in the Cave. The moment he caught sight of her, Tim was practically vibrating.

“Seriously, the _coding_? And the template is so cool, it’s amazing! Also, your work starting the Free Internet Regional Equipping, short; FIRE-Project, to provide accessible, free Wi-Fi in lower income sectors of the city is ingenious and its effect of lowering the unemployment rates is absolutely—”

Throughout his rant, Barbara’s eyebrows slowly rose. She’d gone from looking the stern instructor to taken aback in a second. “Woah, Tim,” she said with a small laugh, “breathe.”

Tim’s mouth snapped shut, cheeks coloring. “I-I just think you’re really, um, cool, Ms. Gordon,” he mumbled.

Her eyes sparkled. “Heard you were the one to save our Jason— you’re not so bad yourself, kid.”

He blushed harder. “T-Thank you, Ms. Gordon.”

“Barbara.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Barbara. Or Babs. Safe to say anyone who knows about the FIRE-Project and supports it is good in my book.” She winked at him. “Doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you.”

Well— she wasn’t joking. Three hours later, and feeling like a giant bruise, Tim dragged himself off the mat. “You really weren’t joking,” he panted, collapsing on the bench. “I feel like I’ve been run over.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Babs said, shooting him a smile. “Means I’ve done my job right. Get ready for tomorrow— it’s only getting worse from here on out.”

Tim groaned, but he was looking forward to it.

#

The days before execution of Project BIAAHGTJBD passed without hitch. Both Tim and Jason passed the strength assessments Bruce had them do with flying colors. Alfred baked a celebratory cake and even Barbara stayed to watch The Shawshank Redemption with them— in honor of breaking _into_ prison the following day.

Bruce sent them to bed early, insisting upon “a full eight hours of sleep before pulling off a heist”. Then shit hit the fan.

Tim found himself in Jason’s closet at 3 AM, holding him while he struggled to keep it together. Jason was shaking, making pained, snarling wheezes, nails clenched deep into his palms to stop himself from lashing out. His knuckles were already bruised and swollen. There were indents in the wall to mirror them.

Damn. Why hadn’t he thought of this? Jason played a pivotal role in tomorrow’s plan. He would be the one inserting the chip. Bruce had had his concerns— what if Jason snapped when he saw the Clown, what if he—…?

Tim rejected that idea. “He needs to be the one to do it.”

Bruce had agreed. They’d left it at that. But damn, why couldn’t the two geniuses of the group think that maybe Jason might face _other_ psychological challenges when confronting his almost murderer? 

Tim stroked Jason’s hair. (He was getting better at the whole comfort thing. Yes, he’d emergency texted Dick after the first time Jason had cried on him. The older boy had been aghast when Tim had asked about the proper angle for hugs.)

“I’m going to be in the vents above you the whole time. Bruce is going to be a hallway over. He won’t _touch_ you— and I’m pretty sure Bruce was serious about cutting his other hand off if he even tries.”

Jason mumbled something incoherent. Tim kept on talking soothingly. “We can do this, Jay. We’ll get in there, inject the chip, get out. Nothing will go wrong. We’ll fight tooth and nail before we ever let him hurt you again. Okay? It’s going to be okay.”

“Tim,” Jason whispered hoarsely. “Tim, it’s not that.”

“What is it?”

Shudders racked Jason’s body. “I’m not scared of him,” he bit out, jaw clenched so tight, Tim imagined he could hear the scrape of his teeth against the words. “This is about the fact that this–… this is all _useless_. It’s not a solution. I can face the Joker a thousand times,” he inhaled sharply, “and it’s _still_ not a solution.”

“What do you mean, Jason?”

“The chip… it’s magic.”

“Yeah?”

“We can’t do it for everyone! We can’t put a magic chip in every single criminal because of the Statute of Secrecy! We can’t even make _this_ one too obvious! If anyone notices the Joker just spontaneously falls asleep anytime he’s reported missing from Arkham, people’ll ask questions, and we can’t have that, right?”

Tim was silent, seeing where Jason’s thoughts were going.

“We might be putting a stop to the Joker— but there are thousands of criminals there to take his place. It’s all just— _so— fucking— useless!_ ” His voice broke off into a frustrated scream. When he spoke again, it was quiet and wrecked. “The chip is just a superficial solution. And we’re no closer to finding a real, non-lethal one.”

#

“Tim,” Bruce said, pulling the boy aside after the next morning’s tense breakfast. 

Tim looked up at him. Bruce’s eyes were ringed with dark purple bruises. He’d bet on the fact he was listening in on the conversation last night.

“I don’t think Jason should be the one to do it.”

Tim sighed. “Bruce—”

“Tim— I heard what he told you.”

_Yup. Fifty Galleons to me._

“Jason’s going to be alone with that man for a whole minute. I don’t think… I don’t think we can trust him not to make the wrong decision.”

Tim took a deep breath, feeling the anger rising in his chest.

“I’d feel much more comfortable if you were the one to—”

“No.”

Bruce started. Tim had never spoken to him so brazenly before, but now he made eye contact without wavering.

“No, Bruce, I _won’t_ be the one to inject the chip. Jason’s going to do it, because that’s what’s his _due_. You have to trust him, Bruce, because that’s what he’s doing for _you_. You take this decision from his hands and he’s going to _know_ you’ve given up on him, and you’re going to push him to do the very thing you didn’t trust him not to.” Tim glared, breathing heavily. Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but Tim cut him off. 

“It’s more than that. You don’t oppose murder as a concept— Superman, Wonder Woman, your friends, have all killed. _Alfred_ has killed, back in the military.”

“As a last resort. What Jason was saying last night, he was suggesting— he was suggesting that _all_ criminals have to be—”

“We’re talking about the Joker right now, Bruce, not all criminals. If Jason _really_ goes into that room and he kills the Joker… then that’s what happens. You accept that, because that’s what you owe him. And then you move on, because you _will_ — you’ll move on, Bruce. Because right now, the only thing stopping you from doing so is the fact you can’t put the same trust into Jason that he does for you.”

Bruce stared at him speechlessly for several seconds. Then slowly, he blinked. Looked down at his hands, clenched into fists at his sides.

“He trusts me,” he said blankly.

“Yes.”

Bruce reached up to slide a hand across his face. “I’ve failed him so badly.”

“Not yet.”

Bruce shot him a look. Then he said, heavily, “You’re right, Tim. I trust Jason. Whatever decision he makes— it’ll be the right one.”

#

Tim and Bruce strode into the living room, where Jason and Alfred were already waiting. “All right,” Bruce said, face perfectly straight. “Let’s get this party on the road.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer: this is bullshit. 
> 
> Another nearly 9k chapter. My brain is wrung out. I hope quantity didn't totally replace quality haha because I'm not completely satisfied with how this chap turned out, but maybe I'll come back and edit. Maybe.
> 
> Me, telling everyone: this fic is gen!!
> 
> Also me: and then Jason and Tim held hands for the fourth time that day—
> 
> Jk guys this fic is still gen, I'm just a hoe for affection.
> 
> Anyways, for those who haven't seen the edit in the last chapter: it has come to my attention that in the previous version of chapter 28, in which I originally had Alfred commenting that Jason might have bipolar disorder, I was portraying the condition in a very inaccurate and harmful way. For anyone who read that and felt hurt or upset, I'm very sorry. It was insufficient research that led to it—that, and a false perception of the disorder that I have now had to rectify, and I assure you that a mistake like this will not happen again.
> 
> For everyone who read the line and was unaware of its inaccuracy: bipolar disorder causes extreme mood swings that last from weeks, to years. Jason's rapid mood shifts are more reminiscent of a hormonal teenagers reaction trauma. A quick diagnosis like this is therefore wrong. 
> 
> I've done a little more research on bipolar disorder, and yeah, especially how I've portrayed Jason's struggles with mental health in this chapter, _really_ do not correspond to bipolar— again, I'm really sorry about the oversight, and thank you for telling me. Since mental health is not a topic to be taken lightly, if you notice inaccuracies or aspects I have not properly portrayed, please don't hesitate to call me out! 😊


	30. Invasive Species

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bats, birds and yet unnamed species invade Arkham.

The “party” was Brucie Wayne in the driver’s seat, Jason in his wheelchair (for underestimation purposes) and Tim crammed in the trunk.

“We’re entering now,” Bruce announced as the security guards waved them through Arkham’s large, iron-wrought gates. He parked the car. A moment later, Tim heard Brucie’s bright, booming voice greeting the guards.

“Jonas! Angelo! It’s good to see you!”

“You too, Mr. Wayne. We’re glad you’re still looking to improve the security here.”

“Of course! I brought my son along today, just to show him a little bit what the company does. You have his security pass, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne.”

“Good, good, we wouldn’t want anyone thinking he’s trying to break in, _ha_! Would you gentlemen help him out while I get his wheelchair?”

Tim heard the gravel crunching outside the trunk. Jason was cursing up a storm in the front seat, insisting he didn’t need any help and batting the poor security guards’ hands away. Bruce opened the trunk.

In a fluid, practiced movement, Tim was rolling out of it and beneath the car. Bruce grabbed the folded wheelchair and closed the trunk.

Tim listened as Jason, still grumbling, got situated in the chair. Bruce asked loudly about directions, then enlisted their help in lugging Jason’s wheelchair up the stairs to the entrance.

“You don’t have very good disability access here,” Tim heard him remark in the distance, “maybe WE should do something about that.”

“That would be very nice of WE,” one of them replied blandly, “although maybe the prisoner security is slightly more pressing?”

“Right, right— what direction did you say to go in? Turn left then go straight?”

“Go straight then turn left, Mr. Wayne.”

“Ah, of course. And then the Warden’s office will be on the left?”

“No, Mr. Wayne, you first have to take a…”

Their voices got fainter as they entered the Asylum. Bruce was somehow managing to mix everything they said up in such wildly creative ways, they decided to escort him the few corridors it took to get to the Warden’s office.

Tim breathed out, slow and steady. _Keep calm_ , he told himself, beating down his jittery nerves. Any moment now…

The sound of wheels on gravel reached his ears. Tim got the dart gun ready. Inhale. _Keep your hands steady._ He aimed, counting the seconds in his head. The truck couldn’t be too far away, but it couldn’t be too close either. It had to be turned at exactly the right angle.

Exhale. The dart flew through the air, hitting the truck’s right tire.

The door slammed open. The driver got out to inspect the now flat tire, swearing. Tim held his breath.

The Notice-Me-Not runes held. The driver spared the dart not a single glance. He stomped to the back of the truck to get a spare, and got to work changing it.

“Coast is clear,” Barbara’s voice said through the comlink in his ear. 

Tim crawled out from under Bruce’s car and ran across the short distance to the truck. The driver didn’t look up. Tim also had Notice-Me-Not runes printed on his clothes. They’d tested them at the Manor to discover the runes, if powered with enough magic, made camera footage of the person in question out of focus and glitchy.

Tim reached the back of the truck and wiggled underneath. Now came the hard part. He’d had the entire week to practice channeling magic for runes. What had once come easy as breathing to him was now as difficult as trying to carry a huge, heavy boulder down a hill without slipping.

He’d meditated probably for a solid four hours every day, just to be able to power runes without causing explosions. Thing was— the Notice-Me-Not charms had all been put into place at the Manor. There, it hadn’t been so bad if he messed up; he could try again.

There was no trying again now. If Tim screwed this up it was game over.

Tim closed his eyes. Felt for his magic. Ever so slowly, ever so carefully, he pushed the magic through his body, feeling it pool at his hands and feet. It saturated the gloves and shoes he was wearing and activated the sticking runes carved into them.

He pressed them against the underside of the truck. They latched into place. Tim let go of the breath he’d been holding, but could not afford to lose concentration— if he let the handle over his magic slip, it was viable to act up unexpected ways (it was kind of an asshole like that).

“Success?” Barbara asked.

“Success,” he confirmed. He heard the driver packing the wrench up and getting back inside. The motor started. Tim felt the vibration in his whole body.

_Go time._

The truck started moving, and Tim, clinging to its belly, held on for dear life.

#

The truck belonged to the catering service that provided Arkham with food. It pulled up to the back entrance. Several workers from the Asylum began unloading the back.

Tim listened to them carting boxes of packaged food into the Asylum. In his mind’s eye, he had a map of the place. He needed to get out from under the truck and through the back entrance into a vent.

“Coast clear,” Barbara informed him.

“Copy,” Tim said, and made to roll out from his hiding spot— only to be jerked back. His gloves and shoes were still stuck to the truck. “Damn,” he whispered, tugging at them roughly. Too much magic— he still hadn’t got the hang of regulating it.

“Tim?” Barbara said, sounding worried. “They’re coming back. You have approximately 30 seconds.”

Tim wiggled out of the gloves and shoes, leaving them hanging onto the truck. 

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he muttered under his breath as he sprinted across the sharp gravel.

 _Please nobody notice my dusty footprints on the floor,_ he thought to himself, sliding across the linoleum floors. He stared up at the vent above him. He was supposed to climb up to it using the gloves and shoes he’d just discarded.

He couldn’t stick his actual _self_ to the walls; that would result in his skin being ripped off his palms and soles. There was no way he could get up to the ceiling and stay there long enough to unscrew the vent screws. Gnawing on his lips, he went through his options.

“Tim, 10 seconds. Where are your shoes? Your gloves?” Barbara exclaimed, alarmed.

“Time for Plan B,” Tim said, then he Vanished the vent screws. This procedure at least, was a piece of cake. Figuring out the method was like figuring out the one secret trick to a puzzle— like those games where you had to get a wooden ring out from a tangle of rope; the one trick after which everything fell into place.

It took him barely a second. He might have accidentally Vanished a bit more than just the four screws; there were suspiciously large holes where they used to be— oh, well. Control was, as previously established, not his strong point.

The vent cover fell. Tim snatched it from the air before it could hit the ground.

“Five seconds,” Barbara warned.

Tim could hear the voices just beyond the bend of the corridor. He took a running start, leaping at the wall. Bracing his sticky, sock-clad foot against it, he launched himself from the wall up towards the open vent.

His right hand caught the ledge. With his left, he still held the cover. He tossed it into the vent, hoping the clang was muffled by the louder growing voices. Both hands now gripping the ledge, he hauled himself up. The metal dug into his palms as he awkwardly scrambled inside.

Just in time. A group of Asylum guards rounded the corner, wheeling an empty cart in front of them. He just managed to hold the vent cover in place as they passed underneath him, talking and laughing.

“Good job, Tim,” Barbara said in his ear, sounding impressed.

“It’s a good thing my socks were so sweaty,” he muttered absently.

“Ew.”

He took a moment to catch his breath after they left, heart pounding in both exertion and relief.

Then, he turned his gaze to the inside of the vent. He swallowed hard. It was both cramped and dark— _not_ a good combination for Tim. Taking deep breaths, he tried to superimpose the memories of Jason’s closet, door cracked open the tiniest bit, over the rapid flashes of _dark, stuffy, can’t breathe_ invading his brain.

Barbara spoke softly in his ear. “You’re okay, Tim, it’s okay, you’re not alone. We’ll get you out if anything happens. You’re safe.”

“Safe” was pretty relative when inside Arkham Asylum but— it helped calm down his pounding heart. Tim nodded to himself, gathering his resolve. If worst came to worst, if anything happened, if he _had_ to get out, he had enough magical power to blow the walls to fucking pieces— and then some. 

Tim began crawling. He’d memorized every twist and turn of Arkham’s vents. He followed his mental map to the kitchens, not far from where he’d started off. Watching through the grate of the vent cover, he located the tray labeled with Joker’s prison number on it.

The food for the rest of the inmates was served in the cafeteria, but due to a convenient recent dismemberment, the Joker was still confined to the prison’s infirmary. He received all his meals there. _Very_ convenient for someone trying to dose him with something.

Barbara kept a lookout for him over the security cameras as Tim crawled out of the vent. He crept over to the tray, extracting the small bottle from his sleeve. A strong sedative. It would put the Clown right to sleep.

He emptied it into the bowl of rubbery looking soup. Tim hoped it tasted as bad as it looked.

He climbed onto a counter (now wincing as his socks stuck to it— a certain health code violation) and hopped back into the vent.

“Phase One complete,” he announced. “Now heading for Checkpoint Two.”

#

Meanwhile Jason was rolling his wheelchair along behind the small procession— the Asylum’s warden, Brucie Wayne and a security guard, clenching his teeth at the ground and trying to ignore his adoptive father’s awful grating fake laugh.

Brucie was going on about locks and ‘structural integrity’, playing up their alibi of having come to the Asylum to inspect how the WE provided security was holding up. Jason acted the annoyed son, who just wanted to go home.

He checked his watch. Every aspect of the plan had been organized and scheduled to the millisecond, and it was almost time…

“Dad!” he snapped, adding a bit of nasal whine to his voice— all spoiled rich kid and impatient teenager.

“What is it, son?” Brucie asked.

Jason had to pretend hearing Bruce call him “son” didn’t make his heart clench. Sometimes he actually thought Bruce meant it seriously— beyond the cameras and covers and any sense of obligation. Other times it just struck him like a bad joke.

“How long’s this gonna take?” Jason complained. “I gotta take a shit.”

The Warden and security guard shifted uncomfortably. Jason repressed an inner grin.

“Surely you can hold out a little longer,” Bruce said. “We still haven’t seen—”

“Nope,” Jason said, as obnoxiously as possible. He was having too much fun with this. “It’s big. Number two. I really gotta go.”

The Warden coughed. “Well, we can have a guard show you to the—”

“What, just ’cuz I’m in a wheelchair I can’t do it myself? Fuck off.”

“Jason!” Bruce exclaimed. He turned to the Warden apologetically. “I’m so sorry about him, Davis, he’s just a little… touchy…”

“Oh, ‘touchy’? That’s what we’re going with now?”

“Please, Jason, don’t cause problems for the nice man,” Bruce said, sounding comically distressed. “I’m sorry, Davis, if it’s really not too much to ask— could you tell him how to get there? I promise he’s not as bad with directions as I am, _ha_! He just, um… doesn’t really like… other people doing things for him? I’m sure you understand—”

“Dad, could hurry up? It’s fucking urgent!”

“Don’t swear, Jason, I’ve told you a bajillion times!”

“Well,” the Warden interjected meekly, “it’s not too much trouble, I mean, there’s no risk… he just has to promise not to stray from the path…”

The Warden told him the directions, eyeing his chair. Most likely thinking ‘ _What’s the worst he could do?_ ’ A kid in a wheelchair didn’t pose much of a security threat.

With grim satisfaction, Jason made his way towards the restrooms. He inspected the security cameras on his way, keeping an eye on the blinking red lights that signified they were active.

When one of the red lights began blinking --. ---; _G O_ , he turned the corner, heading in the opposite direction. Tim would cause the distraction soon and then—

Jason’s blood ran hot just thinking about it. Then came his chance to put an end to the Clown’s reign of terror. Once and for all.

#

An Asylum guard unlocked cell 504, the cell right beneath Tim’s vent. He watched as Buddy Standler AKA the ‘Condiment King’ was led out. It was nearing lunch time and the inmates were being taken to the cafeteria.

“Joker ate the spiked food,” Barbara reported. “Start Phase Two.”

Tim hummed in confirmation. He fixed his gaze on the chain of Standler’s handcuffs, concentrating. Vanishing things was easy, Vanishing things with _precision_ was harder… Tim focused on keeping his magic meticulous and exact. Slowly, one of the links in the chain began to weaken, eroding away.

Without warning, half the chain disintegrated. Tim desperately clamped down on his magic. Merlin! That was not supposed to happen. It had caught Standler’s attention too fast— the next inmate wasn’t even out of his cell yet!

Standler gaped at his broken handcuffs for a moment, then whooped happily. “Take that, bitch!” he exclaimed, turning around to sock his unprepared guard in the face. Standler grabbed his taser from his belt as the guard stumbled backwards.

The other guard, who had been in the process of opening the next cell, slammed the door shut to help restrain the loose inmate. Time for some improvisation. 

Tim sent a wave of pure magic at the cell door, momentarily making the electronic lock malfunction. The inmate, Arnold Etchison AKA ‘Abattoir’ the serial killer, who had leapt towards the door the moment the guard had hastily shut it, wrenched it open.

A moment later, a loud alarm began blaring.

Tim winced as Etchison managed to yank the chain of his handcuffs around one of the guard’s necks. He kept a careful eye on the situation, ready to intervene in case things went south. Letting inmates get free was a calculated risk, the only thing sure to cause enough of a commotion for the plan to work. In Condiment King’s case, it wasn’t really much of a hazard. But as a certified serial killer, Abattoir posed a somewhat greater threat. 

Funny, how Gotham was capable of churning out both criminals that embodied more the energy of a school cafeteria mascot than any real evil, and simultaneously criminals who had killed their entire families and desecrated the corpses. Both were in Arkham’s ‘minor criminal’ division— which probably said something pretty unfavorable about Gotham’s crime distribution.

Since it didn’t seem the guard would be escaping Etchison’s hold anytime soon, and his colleagues proved equally incompetent freeing him, Tim disintegrated another metal chain. Let Bruce find some way to explain that to the authorities.

More guards were streaming down the corridor. Satisfied the situation would be brought under control, Tim recommenced crawling.

“Everything on track?” he asked Babs.

“Yup,” she confirmed, sounding satisfied. “Bruce is currently ‘panicking’ about the security breach.”

“You’re saving the footage, right?”

“Jeez, Tim,” she tutted disapprovingly. “It’s like you don’t even know me… of _course_ I am.”

“Third and fourth backup copies.”

“I’m not an _amateur_. I’ll have you doing an extra twenty pushups just for that.”

Tim groaned, but inwardly, the banter made him feel better. Less tense, less trapped. Barbara no doubt knew it too.

He reached Checkpoint Three. Jason was already waiting, wheelchair folded up and slung over his back. He had the special WayneTech developed crutch in hand. “Hey, Timbit,” he greeted, voice too bright. “You doin’ good up there?”

“Fine. It’s a little tight,” Tim said. He opened the vent cover. “But we’ll both fit.” 

Jason lifted his crutch. The tip shot out, attaching to the inside of the vent with a dull _thump_.

The next moment, he was being pulled through the air, like using a grapple. Tim caught his hand and helped hoist him inside. “You ready?” he asked as they both wiggled around for room.

Jason’s eyes were slightly manic when he grinned back. “Never been more ready.”

Tim had felt his arm. It had been shaking— anticipation, excitement, fear? He swallowed down his worry. Sure, he’d put on an absolutely confident front when talking to Bruce this morning… but truth was, he really wasn’t sure what Jason would decide, and what consequences that decision might have. If Jason killed the Joker, Bruce might be able to accept it— but would Jason stop there?

This might just be the last straw, after which their relationship; a muddled jumble of love, trust and betrayal; took a definite turn into sour.

And still. Tim stood by what he said. It was Jason’s decision to make. Justice could be argued long and hard about, but in the end, if it was what it took to allow him closure and healing, Jason should enforce his own. 

So Tim followed along behind him as they crawled forward, and steeled himself for what was to come.

#

Jason was in a vent in Arkham Asylum’s infirmary, and he was looking down on the sleeping figure of his worst nightmare.

Jason was in Arkham Asylum and he was looking down at the Joker. 

He unscrewed the vent cover, barely even looking at what he was doing. His eyes were fixed on the passed-out man below. Tim was silent behind him, not commenting even as between his shaking hands and inattention, it took him multiple tries.

Jason slid into the room using the makeshift grapple-crutch. He didn’t know what he was feeling. Glee? That the man who’d caused him so much pain was lying helpless in front of him? That the roles were reversed? They weren’t, not quite. While Jason would gladly take a crowbar to the Joker’s fucking face, he was here on a different mission.

It wasn’t quite glee. He didn’t think glee was supposed to make you feel like you were about to throw up, sweaty palms, shaky muscles, cramping stomach.

Looking at the Joker made him feel _sick_ and _weak_. He wanted to kill the bastard so that he never had to feel this way again.

“Jay?” a soft voice called out.

He snapped his head to the side, seeing Tim still peeking out from the vent. In his hand was the syringe with which Jason was supposed to inject the sleep paralysis chip into Joker’s brain.

Was supposed to. Was supposed to— Jason was _supposed_ to do a lot of things, like quit smoking, like stop getting into fights, like act more ‘civilized’ in company, like conform to rich people standards, like _conform_. That didn’t fucking stop him though, did it?

“You forgot this,” Tim whispered.

They both knew Jason hadn’t forgotten.

“Close your eyes, Timmy,” Jason said.

A little rummaging around in the cabinets provided a scalpel. Tim was still watching him. He wasn’t saying anything though. Jason would’ve expected him to make a last attempt at steering him from his path, a last plea for the Joker’s life. Jason wasn’t stupid. He’d _seen_ Bruce take him aside this morning. It wasn’t hard to guess what it was about.

Only question was what he intended Plan B to be. When Tim inevitably failed to convince him. Was his friend carrying a tranq gun on him? Ready to haul him back into the vents?

He stood above the Joker’s prone body, skin crawling at the proximity. He had the scalpel clenched in one hand and his gaze fixed on Tim’s. Waiting for him to make his move… 

… the move that had to be coming. Right? Bruce wouldn’t just send him off without a contingency. Especially since Timmy was failing already at step numero fucking uno, which would be to open his mouth and fucking say something.

“You just gonna stare or are you gonna say something?” Jason snapped.

Tim blinked. “What am I supposed to say, Jason?” he said quietly. “It’s your decision.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “What is this— reverse psychology? Bruce coach you to do this?”

“I am perfectly capable of utilizing reverse psychology _without_ Bruce’s help,” Tim argued, affronted. “And anyways, I’m being serious. It’s up to you. I won’t… try and tell you what’s right.”

Jason gaped at him. Dumbstruck and confused. “Bruce just let you—”

“Bruce didn’t _let_ me _anything_. I told Bruce it’s up to you and he better deal with whatever choice you make. And he concurred. So we’re here. I mean, this was originally meant to be part of his promise to put the Joker out of commission non-lethally, but I think he’s realized it’s not about him. You’re the one who suffered the most at the Joker’s hands, so it’s at _your_ hands he gets to be neutralized. You have two ways to do it, Jay, and the result is the same. So pick one and let’s take this bastard the fuck out.”

_The result is the same._

Jason swallowed, looked down at the Joker. Even in his sleep, his mouth was pulled upwards in a grotesque smile. Jason could kill him right now. He’d never hurt anyone ever again.

Or he could insert the chip. _Same result._

Just because the chip itself was like a one-trick pony, only usable once due to the importance of keeping the magic a secret— that didn’t mean there weren’t other options. Hadn’t Tim proven that? He’d been convinced there was only one way to deal with the Joker, then Tim came up with a second one. Jason was convinced there was only one long-term, sustainable solution to Gotham’s crime… but that just might mean that Jason hadn’t searched hard enough. Bruce’s method obviously didn’t work. Didn’t mean the only other option was to do the opposite.

Jason didn’t conform. He never conformed. ‘Impossible’ was just another guideline by narrow minded people, and he’d spit on that one too.

He looked back up to Tim. Teeth bared in a smile that ran along the wrong side of ‘feral’. He might’ve looked a little scary. Then again, anyone with Jason’s vicious intensity would look a little scary— because when people saw them, they knew not to get in their way.

“Give it to me,” Jason told Tim reaching a hand out.

Tim grinned back. He tossed him the syringe. Jason caught it in a smooth movement, inserting it into the Joker’s ear. He pushed the plunger, ejecting the clear gel-like substance, which contained the microscopic chip. 

“Babs says they’re almost finished cleaning up the mess with the escaped inmates. The guards will be coming back soon,” Tim whispered.

Jason nodded mutely, sparing one last look at the Joker. So calm and peaceful on the medical bed. Unaware that if he ever managed to get out of Gotham, one press of a button would have him knocked back out.

Honestly, Jason couldn’t wait to see the fucking look on his face.

#

Back at the Manor, Alfred had prepared a mini-feast. Uno and monopoly were scattered across the table. Bruce had done nothing but grasp Jason’s shoulders tightly and smile at him with such a look of pride that tears filled Jason’s eyes. (Of course, he later denied it.) But the man was overflowing with triumph and joy, his hands brushing Jason ever so often throughout the entirety of the remaining day, as if he was trying to transfer a part into Jason.

Bruce really wasn’t good with words, Tim had learned. But if you could learn to read him… he tried so hard to convey his feelings in other ways.

Tim had no shame. He one hundred percent cried when Bruce squeezed his shoulders and looked at him like he was in awe. _Batman_. Looking up to _Tim_. Yup, Tim started bawling.

They were lounging in the living room, a round of monopoly behind them (Barbara won, Jason accused her of being a scrupulous capitalist, Bruce went bankrupt), when Jason announced.

“I've thought of a name.”

“What?”

“A vigilante name. For my new alias.”

Bruce slowly set down the dice. “You're giving up Robin?”

Jason sent him a smile, softer than anything he’d aimed at Bruce the last few days. Bruce’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I think we both know it’s time.”

Slowly, Bruce nodded. “All right, son. You’ve… you’ve grown. It’s time you come into your own.”

“What’s the name?” Tim asked curiously.

Jason met his eyes. “The Red Hood.”

Tim understood immediately.

Bruce and Barbara took a while. “What do you mean, ‘Red Hood’? Like— the Joker’s first alias?” Barbara asked, nonplussed.

“Exactly like that,” Jason nodded. “I want to take his name and turn it into something else. Because the Joker… made me. He… when I made that decision today… I decided what kind of hero I wanted to be. I want to be effective. I want to be efficient. I want criminals to hear my name and cower in fear.” He met Bruce’s eyes. “I won’t kill… not unless if it’s a last resort. But the criminals might damn well doubt it, ’cuz I’ll make them fear for their lives. I want to clean up the streets. Help the people who go forgotten because they’re poor and weak and no one will miss them when they’re gone. Help the kids—” _who used to be like me,_ he didn’t say. “The Red Hood’s gonna be all that. The Joker’s gonna watch as I take his name and become his _worst fucking nightmare_ — a hero.”

There was silence for a long moment. Then Bruce stood and walked around the coffee table to sit next to Jason. He gathered him in his arms and said, “You’ll make a great hero, Jay.”

They all pretended not to see how wet Jason’s eyes were.

Then Barbara said brightly, “Well, if we’re divulging our big revelations now, I might as well tell you: I’ve _also_ decided on an alias. Oracle.”

“Like… Oracle of Delphi oracle?” Jason asked.

“Yup. All-seeing, all-knowing, ready to swoop down from your computer’s database and rag on you for all your sordid secrets oracle. I can be the person on the other side of the line, keeping an eye out for you guys. I mean, there’s not much else I can do with these.” A self-deprecating look at her legs. “But,” more solemn, “I can still do good.”

“We would’ve never been able to pull today’s master plan off without you,” Tim told her with a smile. 

“You’ll be an invaluable asset to us on the field,” Bruce said.

“Fuck that, you’ll be absolutely _terrifying_ ,” Jason exclaimed, grinning wide. “Can I call you Big Brother?”

“You know it,” Barbara said, winking at him.

“Well, if everyone’s coming up with vigilante aliases, I guess I should too,” Tim laughed. When the gathered company just stared at him expectantly, his whole face went red. He waved his arms vigorously. “It was just a joke! Wait— you thought I was being serious?”

The other crimefighters exchanged looks. “Well, you _would_ make a good vigilante,” Barbara said.

“I don’t know, the Robin mantle just got vacated,” Jason added, making Tim squeak and splutter.

“Y– You— I… R–Robin?”

“I think you broke him,” Barbara said, amused.

Tim could do no more than splutter incoherently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim: [walking over kitchen counters in his sweaty socks]
> 
> Inmate, eating food made on those counters: number 15 burger king foot lettuce—
> 
> Tim: well since everybody's making new vigilante names, guess I'll just...
> 
> Bruce, Jason, Barbara, Alfred: [waiting expectantly]
> 
> Tim: woah wait what that was a joke hahaha oh my gosh you didn't actually think I would hahaha I can't be Robin!!!
> 
> Author: unless...? 🙃


	31. Being Robin Gives Me Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finds himself in somewhat of a pickle.

For the first time in, like, forever, Gotham City on Halloween was _not_ a shitshow. Tim could barely believe it himself. But most of the rogue gallery were safely behind bars and with both Batman and Oracle keeping a close eye on the streets, Gotham survived the 31st with only minimal damage— Poison Ivy attacking a pesticide manufacturing company.

Batman wrapped that one up pretty quickly. Jason and Tim spent the rest of the night binging Halloween movies (carefully selected not to trigger the multitude of baggage between them; most of it, but not exclusively, Jason’s) and feasting on mountains of sweets.

“You should take advantage of it while you can,” Jason told Tim through a mouthful of Reese’s Pieces, “Al’ won’t let you eat this stuff any other time of the year.”

They were finally shooed off to bed around four AM, when Bruce returned from patrol. Jason woke up screaming sometime later. Tim shot up from his bed, but heard low voices in the room next door. Bruce and Jason. He laid back down, reassured that Jason would be all right.

#

Tim received a strange letter from his friends the next morning. They’d been in correspondence ever since he’d woken up from the coma. His friends had been relieved to hear he’d succeeded, and baffled by his new magical core. Hermione insisted on daily updates on his progress with controlling it; she was delighted at his breakthrough, but less excited about the drawbacks. Every single one of her letters contained at least one _‘You have to learn how to control your magic, otherwise you won’t be able to keep up at Hogwarts!!!’_

Today, puzzlingly, the usual cautionary statement was absent.

Instead she wrote, _Nobody got stabbed in the eye this Halloween… but it certainly comes close in terms of general excitement._

“General excitement”? Tim was not sure that was supposed to mean, especially since Hermione said not a thing more on the topic. Ron wrote maybe once a week or so, so there was no letter from him, but Harry’s was similarly cryptic.

  
_I think you were right about Halloween being cursed. I thought you were being a dramatic Gothamite when you told me to always keep a can of pepper spray and a knife with me. Like, they didn’t come in handy! (No one was attacked except for a cat and no one was hurt, don’t worry!) But you might’ve been on to something._

_Anyways, how’s it going with…._

Tim didn’t think they were purposefully hiding something, but he did know them well enough to conclude they were being vague. They probably didn’t want to worry him. 

_Blaise_ , Tim wrote, to the one person who wouldn’t be concerned with such courtesies, _what happened on Halloween and why are the Gryffindors being so cagey about it?_

_Dear Tim, I see I’ve graduated into personal informant status now. If you must know, Filch’s awful beast was petrified. No one knows who did it or how. As for the Gryffindors— who knows? I never claimed to be an expert on the strange ways in which their brains work. Send me more Jolly Ranchers, will you? Draco raided my last stash._

Tim sent him a couple more boxes, with the note, _I see I’ve graduated into personal candy supplier status. Thanks._

The response was a simple: _‘:) ’_

Tim decided to read up on Petrification. He’d previously not even known what it was. Perhaps the Gryffindors just didn’t want to distract him with unnecessary worries— they certainly knew he’d drop everything to fly back if he thought they needed his help. In any case, the situation didn’t seem dire. He chalked it up to the usual Halloween madness. 

_Somewhere_ something must go wrong on that day after all. The universe was probably compensating for leaving Gotham atypically unscathed.

#

Alfred usually enforced a strict “in bed by 11:30” policy, but tonight Jason and Tim managed to evade it, if only because Alfred was so busy monitoring Batman’s camera feeds.

Tim and Jason slunk back down into the Cave to see what was keeping the butler so long. With Oracle always on the line, he usually didn’t even have to watch the feeds and could instead be found policing the Manor corridors (many an attempt at sneaking out of bed had been foiled by his stern eye). 

They found him anxiously surveying camera footage of a warehouse, Barbara’s voice emanating from the speakers.

“… lost contact ten minutes ago. There’s a backup com in his utility belt of course, but he hasn’t replaced the damaged one yet.”

“That is most suspicious,” Alfred said, voice betraying his worry. “If Master Bruce has not yet re-established contact, we must assume he is unable to.”

“Two-Face wasn’t even supposed to be there. I can’t get any closer look into the warehouse and I’ve got no idea what’s going on. It seemed like he had at least fifteen men on him. Bruce might be in—”

“Boys,” Alfred’s voice cut across sternly. Trying to unobtrusively get a view at the screen from the shadows, Tim and Jason froze in place.

“Is Bruce in trouble?” Tim asked, uneasy.

Alfred took a moment to respond, which was answer enough. “We… are not yet sure.”

“It was supposed to be a regular stakeout. He caught sight of activity inside— Two-Face, who’s been missing from Arkham since January. He went in, but his comline’s been cut and I can’t get ahold of him.”

“The camera on his suit has also been damaged,” Alfred said, pressing a few keys to pull up staticky dark footage.

Jason was taut like a wire, the muscles in his neck standing out. “Two-Face has him,” he bit out.

Neither Alfred nor Barbara contradicted. Tim was silent and wide-eyed next to him.

“He’s got no backup.”

A statement made through bared teeth.

“Dick needs at least an hour to get here,” Barbara said, keyboard clattering softly in the background. “Superman is off planet. I don’t have a direct line to Wonder Woman.”

“This is happening because he doesn’t have someone to watch his back!” Jason burst out. Tim was startled by how upset he sounded. “He’s alone in there and he’s in trouble, and I can’t help him!”

“This isn’t you fault, Master Jason,” Alfred said.

“It doesn’t matter! He needs backup! Batman needs a—”

“Robin.”

Jason and Alfred looked to Tim, who was still staring at the feeds. Side by side, the view of a camera across from the warehouse and the static of Batman’s suit camera. His eyes reflecting in the light.

He turned to Jason, the furrow of his brow revealing tentativeness, but the grim set of his jaw revealing determination. “Batman needs a Robin,” he said quietly.

They made eye contact. Jason’s jaw clenched. He said, “ _Go_.”

#

Being driven to his first fight like a kid being taken to their first baseball game… was not _exactly_ the entrance into Gotham’s vigilante scene Tim would’ve imagined.

Well, of course, first of all; he _wouldn’t_ have imagined any type of entrance into the vigilante scene other then finishing his studies, confronting Batman on his secret identity and forcing his help onto him. Actually donning a cape and mask?

_Robin?_

Nope. No way in hell. That kind of stuff— that just _didn’t happen_ to people like Tim. Tim was one of the people who watched from the sidelines, wasn’t he? Who followed always a few steps behind his idols; waiting, watching, wishing—

Tim wasn’t Robin!

Alfred pulled the car to an abrupt halt, managing to make it silent despite its high speed. Jason was squeezing Tim’s arm, giving him a Look (that could only be described with a capital letter), as he got out.

His boots hit the pavement. A peculiar feeling, since the soles were made of thick special material made to grip the pavement and make running and climbing easier. The cape around his shoulder was a comforting weight— like an embrace.

Tim wasn’t Robin— but the only two better qualified for the job couldn’t take over, and no one else was coming. 

Batman needed a Robin and no else was coming. There was no other option: Tim had to be Robin. 

He entered the warehouse. Heart pounding in his throat as he crept across the rafters. Still— his hands didn’t shake, his feet were steady.

This Robin might’ve only had public Judo lessons and two weeks of intensive bootcamp à la Barbara Gordon under his belt (— also a successful Arkham break-in, not to sell himself short), but when he launched himself from the rafters, his aim was spot on.

 _Crunch!_ — went Two-Face’s jaw under Robin’s boots.

He dropped a smoke bomb, just as surprised shouts and bullets started echoing through the warehouse.

“Don’t shoot, fucking idiots!” Two-Face shouted, but it came out more like “down foo’ fuckig idits!” A moment later, he bellowed in pain.

Robin ducked for cover, activating infrared vision in his domino. Even after Barbara Gordon bootcamp, he couldn’t keep up with the huge, brawler-type thugs thrice his size and probably five times his weight. Taking them down meant efficiency, precision and cunning.

He struck from the cover of the smoke, targeting pressure points and utilizing his 50000V taser indiscriminately. He heard Jason suck in a sympathetic breath through the coms as he nailed a thug in the crotch with the tip of an escrima stick. The man fell to the floor, body twitching with residue electricity.

 _I probably just ended his bloodline,_ thought Tim, duly impressed.

Suddenly, a weight crashed into his side. The air was forced from his chest. He went tumbling to the ground, crashing into a metal crate. One of his escrima sticks went skittering across the floor. He barely had time to gather his bearings. A boot hurtled toward his face. Robin rolled to the side, another foot slamming into his ribs.

He lashed out with a spiked gauntlet, managing to drive his assailant back long enough to stumble to his feet.

He leapt beneath the next punch. Rolling, jumping back to his feet again. He aimed a kick at the thug. His foot was caught in a bruising grip. The thug jerked him forward, fist pulled back to level a punch.

Robin sprang up off his other leg, letting himself be wrenched forward. As the thug’s fist hurtled toward him, he drove his heel into it full speed. He used the forwards momentum to push off from the thug’s hand and twist free from his grip. For a split second he was flying through the air in a backflip, seeing the room upside down. Then his feet collided with the ground. 

The thug was on him in an instant, spitting insults. They buzzed through Tim’s ears like white noise. How did Jason and Dick manage to keep up a running commentary while fighting? Tim was out of witty fight banter, but he did have…

“… a knuckle sandwich!” he tried. “Take it!”

Both hands gripping the escrima stick, he slammed it into the thug’s head. The man lurched backwards, crashing into the metal crate. He fell to the ground, groaning.

Tim stood there a moment, breath coming harsh and heavy from his mouth.

“You know, as far as one-liners go…” Jason started, “… that could’ve been… cleverer.”

“I said knuckle sandwich, didn’t I?” said Tim, mortified. “Oh God. I didn’t even hit him with my, like, knuckles. That’s so embarrassing.”

“It’s pretty embarrassing,” agreed Barbara. “But I think being knocked out by a tiny child in spandex kind of tops that.”

“Excuse me, _I_ wasn’t a tiny child,” Jason protested in mock offense. “Only Timmy can be classified as ‘tiny’ or ‘child’.”

“Field names, please,” Barbara said.

“Hey,” objected Robin as he made his way over to Two-Face, who was struggling to crawl for the exit with a bullet in his shoulder. “I’m totally not ‘tiny’ or a ‘child’.”

“Nope, Robin, you’re a baby. A baby bird.”

Robin zip-tied Two-Face’s wrists, grumbling under his breath. He yanked the man upright. “Where’s Batman?” he thundered.

Well, not quite thundered. It was close enough (— he told himself).

Two-Face groaned. “Fuck off, kid. W’ all todd the Joker’d done yuh in.”

“He did his best— it wasn’t good enough,” Robin said. “You know… if that bullet hit a neuromuscular junction, you might lose function of your arm without medical attention.”

Two-Face glared at him balefully. “Guh down the coal shoot. Undergroun’.”

Robin tossed him a roll of bandages and got up. Two-Face glared at him. “Gunnah tie me up an’ then make me do ih myself?” he snapped.

“Oh, did you expect me to stay and play nurse?” Robin asked mildly, running his eyes over the criminal’s bound form. “Sorry, I’m not really into that.”

He heard Jason wheezing into his ear. “Holy fuck, Robin, you killed him!”

 _Maybe a little bit,_ thought Tim with a tiny smirk.

He rushed out of the warehouse, Barbara giving directions to the building’s coal chute. He found Alfred and Jason waiting outside it. They helped him climb in. Sitting at the ledge, Robin looked up at the impenetrable, gloomy night sky. He clutched Jason’s fingers tightly, imagined the city’s twinkling lights to be stars scattered across an impossibly vast sky. He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut and dropped through the chute.

It was four seconds of an iron hand squeezing his airways closed. Then he emerged in the building’s basement.

The room was absolutely wrecked. Crossbeams had fallen from the ceiling. Parts of the floor had been gauged out, leaving craters and piles of stone behind.

The scene was too familiar. Panic struck Robin. Then he spotted Batman, pinned beneath one of the crossbeams and he forced his numb legs to move.

“Batman!” he called out as he reached the man’s side. Batman just stared at him. Probably wondering if he was hallucinating.

“… Robin?”

“I took care of Two-Face,” Robin panted. “Also, you’re not hallucinating, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Ah.” 

Robin heaved the beam upward while Batman did the same from below. He managed to shove his escrima stick vertically beneath it, propping it up for Batman to wriggle free.

(“Batman” and “wriggle” were not concepts that should overlap, thought Tim and immediately deleted the memory.)

“Agent A and Agent, uh, Jay, are waiting upstairs,” he told the Caped Crusader. When Batman straightened to his full height next to him, the full force of the realization hit him: he was standing next to the city’s myth, someone larger than life, and wearing a costume that made him too a myth, a symbol. _Batman…_ and _Robin_.

The feeling of impossible elation was doused promptly, when Batman growled, “I don’t want you wearing that suit.”

“Situational fucking awareness, B!” Jason snapped in his ear. “You couldn’t have waited till you were _out_ of the warehouse?”

“Language, Master Jason,” Alfred said, but he seemed similarly reproachful.

Of course, not wearing a comlink, Batman heard none of this. He just fixed Tim with a stare that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand mountains. “One boy nearly died in that suit. I will not risk another.”

“That’s all well and good, but he just saved your life,” Jason said, his eye roll practically audible. “Learn a little gratitude, huh?”

Tim was glad for his sarcastic commentary, because he was rooted in spot and floundering for what to say under the weight of Batman’s disapproval.

“Batma—” he started weakly.

“Come on,” he was cut off. Batman headed towards the coal chute, since the door was blocked by debris. 

Tim stumbled after him. “Wait! Batman!”

The man paused. Tilted his head ever so slightly. Tim swallowed. _Now or never._

“Two-Face… Two-Face thought the Joker had killed Robin.”

Batman was silent.

“Batman, if they think they can _kill_ someone like Robin— who are they going to hunt down next? I don’t now why you decided to wear that costume— but it makes you a symbol. Just as Robin was a symbol. Or Superman, or Nightwing, or the policeman who wears his uniform. And this isn’t just a symbol of the law, it's a symbol of justice. When one policeman is killed, others take his place because justice can’t be stopped. And Batman _needs_ a Robin. No matter what he thinks he wants.”*

Batman looked at Robin for a long moment, _really_ looked. Then he turned and started climbing up the coal chute wordlessly.

#

They piled into the car. Jason immediately grabbed Tim for a noogie, making him squirm. “You did really well, baby bird,” he said.

Tim tried to glare at the nickname, but his cheeks, flushed red, gave him away. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Jason grinned. Then he turned to Bruce, who had taken off his cowl. “I hope you’re not thinking something dumb like “just ’cuz one Robin almost got himself killed, there can never be another one again”. ’Cuz that would be dumb, you know, in the wake of Timmy saving your ungrateful ass and all.”

Bruce was quiet, as he had been since Tim gave his long speech. Tim, self-consciously, said, “I didn’t mean Robin had to be _me_ necessarily. I wasn’t trying to say that _I_ was, you know, the person for the role, I just meant Robin, in general.”

“Cut!” Barbara said. “None of the self-deprecating shit. _I_ trained you, you’d make a damn good Robin.”

“Big Brother fucking says it,” agreed Jason.

“Guys, I _can’t_ be Robin,” Tim protested weakly. “I have to go back to school.”

“Fuck school!” Jason exclaimed.

“Master Jason!”

“Don’t fuck school!” Jason amended. “You’d still make a good Robin! B, admit it!”

There was abrupt silence while they waited for Bruce’s response. Tim tried to smother any hope; it would be silly to expect anything, _he_ had inserted himself into the role of Robin against Bruce’s wishes, he couldn’t expect Bruce to now _praise_ him for it—

“For having such little training,” Bruce said finally, “you handled yourself remarkably well in the field.”

“He said it!” Jason cheered. “Tim, I now officially grant you the mantle of—”

“Wait,” Bruce interrupted. “Tim. You’re right. Robin can’t die. I can’t lose another partner, knowing I was the one who put them in the position to risk their lives, and my training failed to keep them safe. But Robin— the figure, the symbol, can’t die either. You have other responsibilities that would keep you from being Robin like Jason and Dick were, but with more training, if in the future, you wanted to don the mantle alongside your other responsibilities… I think you would make a good Robin, Tim.”

Tim was shell-shocked. He also thought: _This would be a dream come true… if I didn’t have Hogwarts making it impossible._

On the other hand, Tim wouldn’t give Hogwarts up for the world. If he hadn’t had the spectacular world of magic available to him, this scene might have been much, much different.

“I’ll keep training,” he said quietly, “I’d… I’d be honored to be Robin,” he said, looking at Jason, who gave him a small grin. “Maybe… during school break.”

#

As if by cosmic intervention to what would have otherwise been _too_ good of a good thing, the most amazing night of Tim’s entire life fell on November 2nd, meaning the following day was the last of Tim’s school-mandated stay in Gotham.

The realization hit him very abruptly. Lying in bed at two in the morning, like someone that had been following him from a distance and was now, quite suddenly, standing bent over his bedside. Of course he’d known _intellectually_ , that his time in Gotham would come to an end.

There was no time he’d felt it more vividly than when he’d told Bruce “Maybe during school break”. That had been almost easy to say, because it was obvious. Tim _had_ to go back to school.

Only now did it really dawn on him what that meant. Being allowed Robin was probably the greatest thing that had happened to him, even greater than receiving his letter two years ago. And had you asked him back then, he’d have said _better, too_ without hesitation.

But now… there was a part of him that was so very deeply anchored in the Wizarding World, a part that thought… maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. That he’d been born magical. That even with his magic drained, it found a way to come back to him, in a different way.

Tim didn’t understand it— although he wouldn’t stop until he did. Not everything had to be coincidence to make sense: light always took the path that could be traversed in the least amount of time (Fermat’s Principle). And maybe magic chose paths purposefully too, and one of those paths was Tim’s. 

Fate was not fixed. The _future_ was not fixed. But one thing was, and that was: the moment magic had chosen Tim, it claimed him as one of its own. 

Tim’s time in Gotham was coming to an end. And it always would, over and over again, because he belonged somewhere else. Right now, home was in the shadow of his heroes; his dreams incarnate. That would never change. But, Tim thought, there was a spot in the Wizarding World waiting for him to make his own. Home wasn’t a place, it was a decision. Tim would carve his out in magic’s legacy, no matter who doubted his claims on it— because he’d decided that he belonged (where he belonged) and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quote from the comics: Batman #442
> 
> The way Tim becomes Robin also follows that storyline, except I have never actually read it and I changed things because, you know, magic 
> 
> I think maybe the timeline has been pretty confusing so I'll clarify: Tim arrives in Ethiopia on Oct 7, rescues Jason, falls into a week long coma during which Bruce desperately tries to figure who he is and where he came from. The American aurors are alerted to him looking into the Wizarding world. After establishing he hasn't actually figured anything out that he shouldn't have, they cast a compulsion on him to prevent him from further looking into it. Bruce is a stubborn asshole and manages to throw the compulsion off.
> 
> Tim wakes up, spends maybe about three days just acclimating to Wayne Manor, then pulls an all nighter hatching Project BIAAGTJBD. He and Jason have a week of very intense physical therapy and training, then the break into Arkham.
> 
> After that is Halloween and a couple days later, Nov 2, Tim saves Batman. The next day is his last in Gotham. If you remember, he was given a month off to spend with his fake uncle.
> 
> Anyways, that concludes his time in Gotham (for now!). What awaits him at Hogwarts, I wonder? 🤔
> 
> Thanks for reading and for all the support!!


	32. Kick Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim returns to Hogwarts, to the great displeasure of many innocent, soon-to-be-damaged classrooms and the people he proceeds to terrorize.

Despite it being his last day, or maybe _because_ of it, Barbara took his agreement the last night as reason to intensify his training by what felt like to Tim, a factor of a hundred, and now Bruce, too, joined in. “Rest days” were a concept apparently foreign to the Bats— in which respect, Tim fit right in.

“We gave you escrima sticks as weapons because Dick uses them,” Barbara said as Tim warmed up on the training mats. She was playing with a sleek metal bar in her lap. “But I noticed the fluidity of your movement greatly improved after you lost one of the sticks. You work better being able to switch between a single handed and double handed grip arbitrarily, and your strikes are much stronger when you use a double handed grip. As such, I think you’d be much more comfortable using…” 

The metal bar suddenly expanded to a staff nearly as tall as Tim himself.

“… a bo staff.”

She drilled him on the basics; grip posture, strikes, then had him practicing katas for several hours.

Bruce picked up the training with battle strategies, going over hypothetical scenarios and how to best solve them. He was delighted— in a very Bruce way, which manifested itself in grim curls of his lips and forebodingly glinting eyes— at Tim’s extraordinary tactical proficiency.

Later in the afternoon he headed to the US equivalent of Diagon Alley to pick up some books on petrification.

Vertic Alley was similar to its British counterpart only in naming scheme. Whereas Diagon Alley could best be described as “quaint”, Vertic Alley was all pale, blank limestone, looming columns and neoclassical grandeur of scale. 

Tim bought all the books on petrification he could find— not many. Another cover caught his eye: _Magical Martial Arts of India._ He didn’t need to think long before adding it to his basket.

After an early dinner during which various members of the family tried to keep the mood light to varying degrees of success, Bruce, Jason, Alfred, Babs and Dick, who had arrived late last night after the emergency call, escorted him to the airport.

“Chin up,” Babs told him with a stern look. “Don’t look down on yourself. Kick anyone’s ass who does.”

Tim gave her a small smile. “Thanks, Babs. And thanks for training me.”

“You’re a good student. I’ve never met someone more dedicated. I’m really glad I got to train with you.”

“You’re the most dedicated person _I_ know!” Tim exclaimed, full of conviction. “You were badass as Batgirl and you’re even more badass as Oracle!”

Barbara’s smile was surprised but pleased. “Thanks, Tim,” she said.

“What is this— Barbara appreciation time?” Dick asked, bounding over to them and slinging an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m always down for that. Babs is the toughest, meanest, scariest, bravest—”

“Okay, you big goof,” Barbara interrupted, laughing. “I’m _still_ not deleting my blackmail on you.”

Dick pouted. “See?” he asked Tim. “I said ‘meanest’, didn’t I?”

“All right, break it up,” Jason said, elbowing Dick out of the way. “It’s my turn.”

He pulled Tim away from the couple. “You’ve got everything? Bo-staff, shrunken training mats?”

“Just two weeks ago you were making fun of Bruce for being a mother hen,” Tim laughed.

Jason pinched him. “Fuck you. I’m just making sure you don’t forget something and we have to find a way to mail it to you. I _still_ don’t get how owls are able to fly across the entire Atlantic.”

“Nobody does. And trust me, I tried to figure it out.”

An awkward silence. Jason was looking at the ground, as if unsure what to say. Tim felt bold in the wake of his hesitance. “Hey,” he said softly, trying to catch Jason’s eyes. “Promise me you’ll think about Bruce’s suggestion?”

Jason scowled, looking away. Bruce’s suggestion— therapy. Which Jason naturally first perceived as an insult, coming from Bruce “Therapy Is Something For Other People But Not Me (I Cope By Cosplaying A Bat)” Wayne. Then Bruce had offered: if Jason promised to give therapy a serious try, Bruce would too.

That changed things. Bruce and any healthy approach to mental health were like water and oil. To offer to undergo it himself, that meant… maybe he really did just want to help Jason (and wasn’t just foisting him off on someone else when he got “too hard to handle”— a favorite threat rich Gala-goers threw Jason’s way). And maybe he was right.

Jaw clenched, Jason said, “I will.” He deflated. “Take care of yourself, Tim.”

“I will.”

Bruce came up to give Tim a trademark Bruce Shoulder Squeeze. “We’ll see you in your next break, Tim.”

“Maybe you’ll find a way to teleport from there to here and you can come by more often,” Dick suggested.

 _You know,_ thought Tim, _that really would be something to look into._

#

Seeing Snape, looming dark and menacing like a human storm cloud, standing on the bustling, crowded train platform at King’s Cross, was like looking at the cross-sections of two completely different worlds superimposed. 

Tim sidled up to his Head of House. “Hello, Professor,” he greeted. “Thanks for picking me up.”

Snape peered down his hooked nose at him, expression displaying the usual amount of disdain. “Come along,” he instructed.

They got into the thestral-drawn carriages. The ride passed in silence. Tim spent it buried in a thick book. Reaching Hogwarts, Snape cleared his throat. “You’ve doubtlessly been made aware,” he intoned, “about the recent… _events_ at Hogwarts.”

Tim nodded, meeting Snape’s dark eyes. “You might find internal House politics strained.”

Internal House politics? Tim knew nothing about ‘the Chamber of Secrets’, but Snape’s warning— given specifically to _him_ , paired with Hermione’s seemingly groundless linking of Malfoy’s “VERY rude comment” (apparently Slytherin House was starting to fall back into old habits with Tim not around to dish out penalty) and connection to the petrifications, was enough to make a vague deduction.

“Forgive me, Professor, but I wasn’t aware the recent events were related to blood politics?”

Snape looked away, but Tim caught the brief flash of approval in his eyes. “Most things are,” he said conclusively, which— WOW; 10/10 for most unhelpful answer of the year.

But it seemed Snape had filled his philanthropic quota for the day (and it was barely 6AM). Tim wouldn’t be getting anything else out of him. They walked up to the castle in silence.

Tim dropped his stuff off in the dormitory. He dropped by the infirmary to pick up a Pepper-Up Potion— he had a whole day of classes before him and jet lag was kicking his _ass_. 

Breakfast started at seven. Until then, it was time to test out his wand for the first time since the warehouse debacle.

#

Tim waited outside the Great Hall for his friends to arrive to breakfast. Blaise was first, throwing him a smirk. Tim knew him well enough to read the genuine delight in it.

“Took you long enough,” he said, then he leaned forward to whisper in Tim’s ear.

Ten minutes later, Tim spotted the Gryffindors scurrying towards the doors, heads bent deep in discussion. Harry caught sight of him first. His eyes widened, and then a large smile broke out on his face. He elbowed Ron and Hermione.

Within minutes, they’d sequestered themselves in an empty classroom (not before Ron had snagged a few plates of toast). His friends had him demonstrate what was now becoming his trademark trick: the “now you see it, now you don’t”— in other words, the wandless _Evanesco_. They seemed properly awed. Hermione, in particular, had a look on her face that probably meant Tim wouldn’t be the only one with that particular ace up his sleeve for much longer.

“And have you tried out your wand?” Harry asked curiously, to be met with a grimace. 

“Yup— and it was disaster. There is now a chunk missing from the statue of the witch on the second floor, which, should anyone ask, I’ll blame on Fred and George.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Hermione said, frowning.

“Don’t worry,” Tim reassured, “I’ll figure something out. More important is this whole Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Tell me what you’ve found out.”

“Well, ’Mione grilled Binns about it a couple days ago,” Ron explained. “He said it was Salazar Slytherin who created the Chamber. There was supposed to be a monster inside, and when Slytherin left the school after his fight with Gryffindor, he sealed the Chamber so that only his true heir could open it again and unleash the monster.”

“The monster,” Tim repeated blandly.

“There’s more,” Hermione said, sounding troubled. “Apparently, the monster was supposed to “purge” the school of all those “unworthy to study magic.” And to Slytherin, those were all students with impure blood.”

“That’s…” Tim blinked. “Okay. What the fuck. First of all. And second of all— do we have, like, sources for this?”

“Well, Professor Binns _did_ say that these were just legends, and that many powerful wixens have searched for the Chamber without finding it…”

“Right,” said Tim, frowning, “because this whole “purging the school of muggleborns” via horrible monster sounds pretty uncharacteristic. Slytherin had a very anti-Muggle stance, but he thought of all magical blood as precious. Also, the whole concept of locking up a monster to be unleashed at a later date doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t he set it loose immediately, if “purging the school” was what he wanted?”

Harry, Ron and Hermione stared him, taken aback. Harry said uncertainly, “Well, maybe he thought with Godric Gryffindor and everyone else still around, they’d be able to stop the monster?”

“That’s dumb. As if there hasn’t ever been an extremely powerful wixen since then— I mean, wasn’t that the point of the _school_?”

“Maybe he thought the monster would have a larger chance of succeeding if the knowledge of the Chamber of Secrets faded into obscurity, so that the monster could strike by surprise. Tactically, it would be the soundest choice,” Ron offered. “And I’m sorry, mate, but I think your Housemates really aren’t all about “precious magical blood” and all. They worship that slimy Slytherin bloke because he was a blood-purist, like they are. You know what Malfoy said when he saw the message on the wall? He said: “Muggleborns, you’ll be next!” Except he used—”

“A slur, yes,” said Hermione, eyes hard. “Of course, Tim makes a good point regarding the validity of our information— but the fact is that the Slytherins, chiefly, _Malfoy_ , know something more about the Chamber, and it’s bad news for _us_ ,” she said, making eye contact with Tim.

“Filch is a Squib,” Harry said quietly. “I mean, nobody liked Ms. Norris— but the attack might not have been a coincidence.”

“We can’t stand by idle while someone is painting targets on our backs,” Hermione said firmly.

Tim let out a tense breath. “You’re right. We have to get to get bottom of this. Although, for the record, if Malfoy's one of your suspects, I think you’re on the wrong track. He _might_ know something, but more likely is he’s just peacocking around like usual. I can try to weasel some stuff out of him, but the person responsible will most definitely _not_ be a Second Year. Dumbledore said it was very advanced Dark magic, right? We should be looking at the Seventh— _maybe_ Sixth Years.”

“I don’t know, Tim,” Ron said. “Malfoy’s family has a lot of connections, to like, the really Dark magic and stuff. Maybe he got a book from home or something like that—”

“Implausible, next theory, please.”

“It’s not! Harry, tell him what you heard.”

“During the summer,” Harry said, sounding uncomfortable, “you know, when I accidentally Floo’d into Knockturn Alley? I told you how I saw Malfoy and his dad there.”

“Yeah?”

“And well, it was at Borgin and Burke’s. I asked Hagrid, and he said it’s a place where a lot of really Dark and questionable stuff is sold— cursed objects, illegal books and the like—”

(Tim perked up.)

“— and I overheard him, haggling with the owner. He was trying to sell some of his things. Alluded to the fact that it was the type of stuff that would get him in trouble if the Aurors were to find it in his house.”

“Malfoy’s not all bark and no bite,” Hermione said grimly. “He might be a spineless coward, but he has access to some of the worst stuff out there, and I wouldn’t put it past him to take advantage of it too.”

Tim didn’t tell them that Dark magic left _residue_ , it could be detected, and if Malfoy could even _master_ stuff of that caliber (which he certainly could _not_ ), they would be able to see the toll it would take on him. He didn’t tell them, because of a little thing called deflection.

“All right, point taken. In fact that’s _such_ a good point,” Tim said, “we should totally check out _what_ it was Mr. Malfoy was getting rid of.”

“Really?” Harry and Ron said, surprised. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

“And since you guys are already planning your Grand Slytherin Break-in via Polyjuice, I volunteer to take over that part of the investigation,” he concluded cheerily.

“Wait— how did you know about that?”

“Blaise. You guys should _really_ check for listening devices before talking about sensitive stuff. By the way, I want to see your Polyjuice. That’s a really hard potion, and if you fuck it up, well, mildly put; it’s _bad news_.”

Ron patted his pockets and groaned as he pulled out a little chip. “What is _wrong_ with you Slytherins.”

“Aw, it’s how we show our love,” Tim grinned. “Anyways, give it back to him, so he knows what’s going on and we don’t have to do a recap.”

#

Tim said he’d figure out a way to not cause a disaster in class, and _technically_ he succeeded. Throughout the following week, there was only one incident that could really be classified as a disaster, and that was the time they’d been doing _Incendio_ ’s in Charms and he’d accidentally set his entire desk on fire, okay and there was also the time in Defense when they were supposed to be making floating orbs of light and there _might_ have been a fireball involved— but _apart_ from that. Tim managed to keep a stranglehold on his magic.

Constantly having to be so careful how much magic he used meant he was no longer among the first in the class to master a spell or complete a Transfiguration, but among the last, if he even succeeded at all. He got pretty good at assessing which spells he had a good chance at managing and which not even to try in class— this was _not_ good news for his grades, but at risk of accidentally blowing up the classroom, probably the lesser evil.

In fact, from the outside, Tim’s sudden ineptitude in control might seem grievous, but in truth, it was a best-case scenario. Had he actually been using his wand, Hogwarts would probably be a couple classrooms down. Instead, Tim had found a stick outside and Transfigured it to something resembling his wand, then proceeded to cast, or, _try_ to cast everything wandlessly.

The problem with the wand was that it was an amplifier. A wand basically pulled magic from the caster to channel, eliminating the need for the caster to actively concentrate and aim their magic. Wand cores and the caster’s magic, if compatible, enhanced each other, automatically boosting any spells. And that was something Tim definitely did not need.

So, class was tricky. Tim did his best, and practiced hours and hours outside of class, trying to master the spells he hadn’t been able to (usually outside in some secluded corner where scorch marks weren’t such a big deal), but to his peers and teachers, only a rapid decline in ability was noticeable.

Tim couldn’t _afford_ to look weak, not with House Slytherin on his back. So he played up a different angle, the grief-stricken teenager card, pretending his magic was going haywire as a result of stress and dejection. He was _still_ very capable of putting people on their ass, and he made sure no one in Slytherin could doubt that— unleashing a terror campaign against all those Blaise had reported using slurs and making discriminatory comments while he’d been absent.

With twelve of the most outspokenly prejudiced Slytherins all landing in the infirmary over night, and Tim, now powerful enough to keep protection runes on himself activated at all times, impervious to all attacks, he reclaimed his “Not To Be Messed With” status.

As a matter of fact, his reputation made a shift. He’d always been that _weird kid_ , but now his image started painting him as unstable, devious, _dangerous_.

Tim was baffled by this new rep, which had people avoiding eye contact and quieting down when he approached and they were having conversations they thought he might not like. (Which was cute, but ultimately pointless, since he had ears everywhere.)

Blaise, on the other hand, found it hilarious, and, joined by a similarly amused Fred and George, could often be fond spreading weird rumors to feed the public misconception. (“Yes, he performs monthly blood sacrifices so as to function without sleep. That’s right, Tim never sleeps, he creeps around at night and listens to you sleep-talking. Yes, Janice, that’s how he knew you were doing it with—”)

Well, maybe it wasn’t that much of a misconception, Tim mused. His magic _was_ pretty unstable, he _did_ consider himself devious, and he never intended on being anything _less_ than a threat to anyone who deserved it.

#

At the end of the week, Draco and Tim met up in a secluded corner of the library to discuss tutoring. 

Draco was petulant, contemptuous as he sat down, casting Tim suspicious looks. “There are a multitude of rumors making rounds about you,” he said.

Tim gave him a bland smile. “Are there?”

There was an expectant silence. When Tim did not elaborate, Draco huffed. “Fine then. I won’t ask how you broke into the Seventh Year dorms and took out the Carrow twins.”

He cast Tim another look. When, again, Tim didn’t reply, he sighed louder. “Let’s just get on with it.”

Tim placed the Traceless wand on the table between them. “First of all, thanks for that,” he said. Draco inspected the wand.

“What’s this?!” he exclaimed, aghast. “A scratch?! The varnish is peeling, the wood is cracked! What were you doing with it— trying to substitute eating utensils?”

Tim winced. “Sorry about that. I got into something of a… scuffle.”

“A scuffle!” Draco said, pitch rivalling Hermione’s when she got _really_ worked up about the school system.

“Do you need compensation?” 

“Compensation!” Draco said, as if he’d been spat on. “The House of Malfoy doesn’t need you to _compensate_ anything— like we’re some sort of peasant who can’t afford wand repairs _ourselves_. Keep your money, Drake!”

“All right,” Tim said, making a placating gesture with his hands, since Draco now seemed more offended than before. _This is already off to a great start_. “How about we get back to the matter at hand— tutoring.”

Draco scowled. “Right, well. I’d like to make it clear that I’m doing _perfectly_ fine. I was top of our Year last year, and I’ve never had any–… any trouble, before.”

“What subjects do you want us to focus on?”

“Runes, DADA and Transfiguration. Although, you might not be the best choice in tutor,” Draco said with a condescending look, “judging by the recent news of your incompetence in the classroom.”

“We’ll see how far we get,” Tim said, expression unchanging. “Why don’t you demonstrate a _Petrificus Totalus_ for me,” he suggested, drawing from his spell-by-spell knowledge of the Second Year curriculum. “I’ll try to gauge what’s going wrong.”

Draco, surprisingly, did so with minimal complaint. He cast the spell, and Tim felt a brief stiffening of his limbs, but managed to raise his hand. “More magic,” Tim commanded, waving his hand. Draco clenched his teeth and Tim felt a momentary drag on his arm, before it let up again.

“More,” he said.

“I can’t do more,” Draco snapped.

“Right. Okay, stop. Do a _Fumos_.”

 _Fumos_ — the smoke producing charm. Draco waved his wand, but what came out was a clumpy black substance with the texture of silly string. Tim examined it curiously.

“You’re putting too much magic in,” he said. “ _Fumos_ requires a lighter touch. Think smoke— wispy, drifting, intangible.”

Another black spurt dripped from Draco’s wand tip. He made a frustrated sound. “It’s not working.”

“Okay,” Tim said. “I know what’s going wrong.”

“You do?”

“You have the same problem I have right now: regulating your magic. I’m guessing you had private tutoring before Hogwarts?”

“Naturally,” Draco said, raising his chin haughtily. 

“Well, you were probably given a training wand first thing.” Tim waited for Draco’s confirmation nod. “A wand is a powerful tool that simplifies the casting process by helping you channel it. Basically, it draws on your magic and helps concentrate it, so that you can cast a spell. You can think of your magic like… a river, running parallel to your blood stream. The more is gathered in one place, the more pressure is exerted, like a dam. You know what a dam is?”

“Of course I do, Drake,” Draco sniffed.

“Good. So there’s like, an energy threshold, that needs to be overcome, so that the dam breaks and the magic can be expelled from your body into the outside, where it does what you want. A wand makes that process easier by acting basically like a magnet, pulling the magic into one place so that it can cross the energy threshold quickly.”

“What’s a magnet?”

“Two things that attract each other,” Tim explained, Transfiguring a pair of magnets to demonstrate. “There’s a reason, but it would probably be too confusing to go into it.”

“Wait a second— did you just Transfigure those out of _air_?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah.”

“But you didn’t even use an Incantation, or–…or, the wand movement?” Draco said, perplexed.

“Wands, incantations and wand movements are all just crutches to allow for an easier channeling of magic. You’ve heard of silent casting, right?”

“That’s Sixth Year stuff!”

“Yeah, because they go about teaching us everything wrong here,” Tim said with an eye roll. “The point is, you were given a training wand first thing, so you never learned to channel your magic properly. Which means you’re always just letting your wand draw the magic _for_ you, which doesn’t work when you have spells that require regulation of how much power you put in, because you’re always just putting the _same amount in.”_

Draco was silent, lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t just _let_ my wand draw magic for me,” he bit out. 

_This again._ “Come on, Draco, you’re here to improve. That means acknowledging your weaknesses.”

Draco scowled and turned back away. “So how come you can’t do it either all of a sudden? Huh, Mr. Mud— Muggleborn-Wonder?”

Tim’s face darkened. He hadn’t missed that little slip up. Neither had he paid Draco back for his attitude towards Hermione— he’d wanted to let her sort that out herself, but Draco was on _thin fucking ice_ here.

“That’s none of your business,” he replied coldly. “Do you want to know how to fix your problem?”

Draco made a face. “My _problem_. All right, tell me if you’re so smart then.”

Tim was honestly at his wit’s end when it came to the Malfoy Heir’s inferiority complex. For a while, things seemed to be going well, but then Draco’s insecurities would kick back in and he would remember he wasn’t supposed to take advice from Muggleborns. Tim repressed a frustrated groan.

“Meditation,” he said. “I have a couple books on it that I can lend you, but basically, they’re exercises you do to get better at channeling your magic or clearing your mind.” He explained the mechanics and the different stages, from trying to feel your magical core to actively drawing on it. 

“It’ll also help you with Runes later,” he finished. “I’d be glad to help you get a head start on Runes, and this’ll help you be able to power them.”

Throughout the monologue, Draco’s face had gotten more and more closed off. Until he resembled a stone in his frigidness. “Meditation,” he repeated, tone revealing exactly how little he thought of that idea. “Your grand master plan is for me to sit down and do _nothing_ for a couple of hours a day.”

“Did you not listen to anything I just said?” Tim asked, exasperated.

“Oh, I listened, and it sounded like hogwash! I’ve had the _best_ tutors Britain has to offer, and now you’re telling me they taught me wrong?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you,” Tim said levelly. “Get with the program.”

“Well, _I_ think you’re just some uppity Muggleborn who thinks they know more than they do!” Draco burst out, getting to his feet. “You’re always looking down on the rest of us, and your whole meditation schtick obviously doesn’t work, does it, or you wouldn’t be having so much trouble in class! Save the crap!” he said angrily, only some remaining decorum stopping him from shouting. 

“This was a mistake. Consider your debt paid— I don’t want your stupid excuse for tutoring anymore.”

He stormed out.

#

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” a voice growled dangerously.

Tim jerked up from where he’d been immersed in _Magical Martial Arts of India_. He was greeted by the sight of Blaise, striding towards him like a man on a mission.

“H-Hey…” he said weakly, recognizing the foreboding look on his friend’s face. The look that said _all right, things just got real_. “What can I do for you this fine evening, Blaise?”

“For starters,” Blaise snapped, coming to a stop in front of him, “you can tell me why Draco is being twice the insufferable prat than usual. Because my sixth sense tells me _you_ have something to do with it. And my sixth sense,” he hissed, narrowing his eyes, “is never wrong.”

“Oh,” Tim said, blinking. “That? Don’t worry about it, he’ll come around.”

“Really. He’ll come around? I don’t think you know what it’s like to be kept up till eleven at night because some spoiled ponce next to you is running through 101 reasons why he’s not responsible for anything that goes wrong in his life. With an encore of 101 reasons why he would be a better friend to Harry Potter than Ron Weasley. Okay? Because if you did, you’d be a little more considerate towards us poor souls still stuck in a dormroom with him, and curb your inconvenient fucking tendency to rile him up this bad!”

“Look on the bright side!” Tim attempted. “11 at night is pretty early!”

“Not for those of us trying to avoid substance abuse,” Blaise said venomously.

“I don’t—”

“Three cups of coffee as a twelve-year-old _counts_.”

“All right fine, I’m sorry that Draco’s in such a bad mood! It’s really not my fault though! He should finally grow some thicker skin and face his problems. Anyways, seriously. Don’t worry. He’ll get off his high horse eventually.”

#

Two days later, Draco walked into the library, gait that of a person who would be stomping, had they lest decorum. Either way, when he _Finite_ ’d Tim’s (first layer of) privacy wards (— Tim quickly waved the rest away) to sink dramatically into the chair next to him, he looked decidedly pouty.

“Draco?” Tim asked, amused.

Draco shot him a glare. “I… did what you suggested.”

“You meditated?” Tim asked, shutting his book and turning towards the boy eagerly. “And?”

Scowl deepening, Draco waved his wand. In the next moment, Tim’s limbs were stiffening and he was falling backwards. 

Tim sent a pulse of magic through his body, nullifying the spell. At once his limbs were free again. Halfway between chair and ground, he caught the edge of the table. His magic burnt into the wood before he could draw it back. He hauled himself back up. “Neat trick,” he panted, quickly shoving his book over the now blackened spot of wood. 

“How’d you _Finite_ that without your wand?” Draco complained, seeming disappointed he hadn’t managed to put Tim on his ass.

“Runes on my clothing,” Tim lied smoothly. The runes hadn’t been active.

“Seriously?” Draco caught himself displaying too much interest and quickly toned his expression down to one of cool indifference. “I trust you’ll show me them in a later tutoring session,” he drawled.

“Sure,” Tim agreed easily. “Although I wasn’t aware we were continuing the tutoring.”

“Well,” Draco said sulkily, picking at a grain of wood, “I tried your method… and turns out it works… kind of. I guess. Maybe. So…” He cast Tim a look, trying to hide nervousness, but not quite succeeding. “… perhaps your approach is not as daft as it appears.”

Tim grinned. “In that case,” he said, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind working further with someone who’s not as daft as he first _acts_.”

Draco huffed. “Yes, yes, whatever, Drake. Regarding compensation, since I already deemed your debt paid, perhaps we can agree on a generous fee of a sickle an hour—”

“Another favor is fine.”

Draco shot him a look. “Surely monetary compensation—”

“I neither need your money, nor do I feel like debating your assessment of ‘generous’. Although, _had_ I settled for monetary compensation, I would have to, since I object to being exploited,” Tim said pleasantly. “An unnamed favor of equal to lesser value than the one I am paying _you_ ,” he gave Draco a pointed look, “to be called in at a later date.”

After some more posturing and eventually some sulky grumbles, Draco finally agreed. Tim felt the magic of their contract snap into place and gave a pleased hum.

Getting the richest kid in Britain in his pocket was as good a way as any to kick off his return to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like "how tf owls do what they do" is a box I shouldn't open unless I want to reach like "wormholes in space" level scientific bullshittery so let's all just agree that it's a mystery that will not be solved
> 
> (I think Tim tried to attach a camera to Amber or something and then she just refused to deliver his letters)
> 
> SHORT PSA: BARBARA GORDON DESERVES SO MUCH BETTER. I WISH I COULD GO MORE INTO HER WHOLE STORY AND ALL HER CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT BECAUSE SHE'S BADASS AS FUCK BUT SADLY I CAN'T BUT DC SHOULD STEP THE FUCK UP AND DO HER RIGHT. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.
> 
> I originally called the thestral carriages "horseless carriages" back in chap uhh 27 (?) but then realized that's unrealistic... because let's be real, Timmy's probably seen some shit...
> 
> Anyways, happy holidays guys, I hope you're doing well and I look forward to 2021— not because it will be any better than 2020 but because I'll finally stop feeling obligated to make 2020 vision jokes every single fucking day. In all seriousness, thanks for reading and for all the support— seeing your comments and all the love is something that really cheers me up and makes me feel warm inside and I hope this fic is also something that can bring joy to you too. I hope we can continue sharing the good vibes in the coming year :') 
> 
> ♡♡


	33. A Hospital Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is visited by (dubious) friends in the hospital wing.

Like all great ideas, this one came to Tim in the shower. It hit him so unexpectedly, he had to shut the water off a moment just to process.

How could he have forgotten about his literal accurate _visions of the future?_

Sure, Divination so far had been like those experiments where they put people in empty rooms with devices that would shock them if touched, and the people touched the buttons repeatedly, just because they were so bored. That’s to say: Divination was so _painfully_ dull, Tim was sure slamming his head against a wall would kill the exact same amount of brain cells and still be more fun. 

So, it was about the furthest away from his visions as possible. Then there’d been the research he’d done on the concept of seers and future telling, but any books he’d found were so vague and purposefully confusing, he soon gave the entire endeavor up, convincing himself “he’d get back to it later”. (Ha. Yeah right.)

Anyways, somewhere between all the excitement of the past month and a half, his weird future telling visions had been placed at the back of his mind.

Which was an oversight to be rectified immediately.

“We’ve been making all these plans to investigate the Chamber of Secrets,” Tim announced to his friends the following morning, “except we didn’t think of the fact that the most effective way to stop a further petrification, is to know _when_ it’s going to happen.”

“Tim,” Blaise said in the very long-suffering, exhausted parent way. “Please don’t be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“Just think about it!” Tim protested. “Last time— last time I proved that the future can be changed! So if we know when, where and how the next petrification will take place, we can stop it!”

“Wait, but how do you want to figure that at out?” Ron asked.

“I want to induce a vision.”

“Yup, and there,” Blaise said throwing his hands into the air, “you suggested what I thought you would suggest.”

“Hold on— induce a vision?” Hermione asked. “Are you suggesting this in a “I’ve read about this” way or a “let’s find out if it’s possible” way?”

“The latter most definitely,” Blaise cut in. “Because no _sane_ wizard messes with time.”

“Sources, please,” Hermione said.

“There are no sources, I checked!” Tim insisted. “In fact, wizards mess with time _all_ the time. Ever heard of time turners? Yeah, that’s a thing. Just imagine what number of alternate universe we’re in right now because wizards can go back in time and change reality.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Blaise protested. “The past isn’t malleable like that. If you’re in the present, everything in the past has _already happened_ , which means if you travel into the past, that too, has already happened. If you travel to the past and see yourself, you, in the present, will remember seeing yourself, because there is no alternate reality, it’s all one singular time stream.” * 

“That may apply to seeing the past,” Tim agreed, “but not to the future. The fact that I was able to see a vision and _change_ it proves that the future, at least, is pliable.”

“You know,” Hermione mused, “that does sound probable. If we could induce a vision, we could answer all the questions we have right now: who’s doing the petrifications? How are they doing it? And when will they strike?”

“Can you really control _what_ you see though?” Harry asked. 

“No,” Blaise said, at the same time as Tim said, “Yes.”

“It’s not a good idea,” Blaise insisted. “It would give a seer way too much power. Trying to take that power, it’s just against the natural order of things.”

“I’ll take what you’re saying into consideration once you’re able to explain what the ‘natural order’ even _is_. Are we talking atoms? Are we taking quarks? Are we talking multiparticle configuration space?”

Blaise gave him an annoyed look. “You know very well I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just saying— I think you should be careful with this stuff. I don’t think you should do it.”

“I _will_ be careful, Blaise,” Tim said, bumping his elbow against his friend’s gently, “promise.”

Blaise sighed. “You’re like a fucking two-year-old. I have to constantly tell you not to stick your fingers in power sockets. Fine. Go off, I guess.”

Tim fist pumped. “Yeah! All right, here’s the plan,” he said eagerly. “The first thing I need to do is steal Trelawney’s incense…”

#

After Harry’s first Quidditch match, in which he had almost been murdered in front of the entire school, Tim had learned his lesson. The sport might be dumb, illogical and boring— but there was no way in hell he would miss another of Harry’s games.

A good decision. Since, in the first match of the new school year, a Bludger went rogue and tried to, very violently with as many broken bones as possible, knock Harry from his broom.

“What the hell?” Tim exclaimed, getting to his feet. “Why aren’t they stopping the game? That Bludger’s obviously been tampered with!”

He was in the Gryffindor stands in a red and gold scarf. Rain was starting to come down hard now, and Tim was having trouble keeping Harry in sight.

“They’d have to forfeit,” Ron said next to him. He was squinting up at the figure frenziedly dodging a hundred meters above in obvious worry. “It would really suck, given it’s Slytherin they’re up against— no offense.”

“None taken,” Tim said tightly.

“But this is getting really bad. That Bludger looks like it’s only getting meaner.”

“He’s going to fall from his broom at this rate,” Hermione said antsily. “This is ridiculous! How could the Bludger have been tampered with?”

“I dunno,” said Ron. “All the Quidditch equipment is kept in a locked case in Madam Hooch’s office. There’s no way it could’ve been sabotaged beforehand.”

“Well, security here is notoriously lax,” Tim said disdainfully. “That’s it. I’m going down there—”

In that moment, Hermione inhaled sharply. Tim looked to see Harry’s broom spiraling a few times before he got it back under control. His arm was hanging limply at his side. He barely managed to duck under the next pass the Bludger made at him. And then he was racing towards an alarmed Draco.

Tim shoved his way through the crowded bleachers, freely deploying Stinging Hexes to get people moving. “Stupid Quidditch,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Stupid, illogical Quidditch.”

A cheer went up in the stands. Harry had caught the snitch. He was flying towards the ground, holding onto his broom only by his legs.

Tim rushed across the field to meet him. Harry hit the ground and would have fallen had Tim not caught him under the shoulders. His arm was hanging at a very wrong angle.

“Ah,” he said vaguely, “We’ve won.”

“You crazy son of a bitch!” Tim cried, half scolding, half impressed. Harry laughed, and then he passed out. 

Oliver Wood and the Gryffindor Chasers, Katie and Angelina, ran towards them, whooping and cheering.

“Not so fast, guys,” Tim told them as they crowded around, “your Seeker’s still passed out cold. He needs to get to the Hospital Wing.”

There was a sudden shout of “Watch out!”

Tim ducked, pulling the unconscious Harry with him. The rest of the team dove to the side, shouting in panic as the rogue Bludger swooped above.

Tim pressed Harry into Wood’s arms. “Get him to the Hospital Wing, pronto.”

Then he pulled out the stick in his pocket and hurried to join Fred and George in subduing the Bludger. Working together, the three of them managed to wrestle it into its case.

“Merlin,” muttered Fred. “That’s a prank not even George and I would pull on the opposing side.”

“Well, maybe on Flint. He’s a right arsehole,” George ammended.

_If only this was something as harmless as a prank_ , Tim thought. But his paranoia said otherwise, and Tim’s paranoia was seldom wrong.

Mud-splattered and sweaty, he trudged back towards the group surrounding Harry, just to find—

“Oh, _hell_ no,” he spat, breaking into a sprint. “What the hell’ve you _done_?”

Professor Lockhart raised his hands genially. “I have rid this young man of his broken arm—” he began in the tone of voice that sounded like he expected the gathered company to kiss the hem of his robes for it.

“Yeah, by getting rid of all the _bones_ in my arm!” Harry, now awake and sporting a rubbery, boneless limb, snarled at him.

“I said ‘Hospital Wing’, Wood, not impromptu bone removal by an unqualified idiot!” Tim growled.

“Now,” Lockhart admonished, sounding offended, “that’s no way to speak of a person of such capability such as myself—”

“Get out of my goddamn way,” Tim snapped, and something about his expression must’ve conveyed how close he was to committing assault, because Lockhart stumbled backwards and allowed Harry and Tim to pass.

#

As could be expected, Madam Pomfrey was not at all pleased. A broken bone could’ve been mended within a minute, but thanks to Lockhart’s intervention, Harry now had to spend the entire night in the Hospital Wing, re-growing all the bones in his arm.

“I’m not leaving him in there alone,” Tim declared, standing with Ron and Hermione outside of the Hospital Wing. 

“You don’t think it was just some sort of prank?” Ron asked.

“In light of recent events,” Tim said grimly, “no.”

“You’re right, Tim. We can’t take any chances. Madam Pomfrey will give Harry a dose of Dreamless Sleep, since the process will be painful. But we can’t leave him unguarded,” Hermione said.

“I’ll stay too,” Ron said. “Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

“I don’t think it should be you, Ron, no offense,” said Hermione. “But your wand is broken and more likely to backfire on us than help.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again sulkily. 

With the self-appointed Harry-Watch Squad decided, Tim and Hermione set about making themselves comfortable— or, as comfortable as _possible_ , under a few hospital beds. Hermione had the Invisibility Cloak and Tim had Notice-Me-Not runes covering him. Once Madam Pomfrey had turned off the lights and bustled back to her private quarters for the night, they rolled out from their hiding spots to camp by Harry’s bed.

“Thanks, guys,” Harry mumbled sleepily. “You really don’t have to.”

“Shush,” Hermione said. “You better be right as rain by tomorrow, we have classes.”

Hermione and Tim decided on taking shifts, and it was during Tim’s when a loud _crack!_ startled him to his feet.

He hadn’t felt his Wards be breached. Somehow the perpetrator had Apparated directly _into_ them— not to mention, _within_ Hogwarts!

There was a creature on Harry’s bed. Tim lunged towards it, wrapping a hand around its skinny, wrinkled arm. It squeaked, turning towards him with horrified yellow eyes.

Hermione was scrambling groggily to her feet. “What the hell—” she began.

The creature squeaked louder, panicked at the sight of another person. Tim knew it was going to Apparate back out seconds before it happened.

The creature stilled as the cool edge of a knife pressed into its throat. “Don’t move,” Tim growled lowly.

“Tim, why do you have a knife?” Hermione hissed.

“Magic’s too unreliable,” Tim responded with a bitter glance at his wards.

Harry was slowly waking up, groaning. He blinked blearily at the scene: a dirty, terrified creature standing on his bed with its arm tight in Tim’s grasp, Hermione standing a few feet away with her wand pointed at it and— Jesus, was that knife?

He blinked again. “Dobby?”

“H-Hello, Harry Potter,” Dobby said in a trembling voice.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, rubbing at his eyes with his good hand.

“Dobby w-was just wanting to ch-check in, sir. Dobby wasn’t expecting you to have company.”

“You can let him go,” Harry told Tim. “He’s harmless.”

Tim put the knife away— where, Harry didn’t know, but he was sure it was close at hand— and glared at Dobby. “I don’t think so. If he could get through my wards…”

“Dobby’s a house-elf,” Harry explained. “They have special magic.”

“A house-elf?” Hermione asked, at the same time Tim said, “Special magic?”

“Seriously, Dobby, what are you doing here? I don’t need you to check in,” Harry said.

A single tear ran down the House Elf’s long, pointed nose. “Harry Potter came back to school,” he whispered miserably. “Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Why didn’t Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?”

“How did you know he missed the train?” Hermione asked suspiciously.

“Wait— it was _you_!” Harry said slowly. “ _You_ stopped the barrier from letting Ron and me through!”

“Indeed yes, sir,” said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously. “Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward—” he showed them ten long, bandaged fingers, to which Hermione gasped in horror, “— but Dobby didn’t care, sir, for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and _never_ did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school another way!”

He was rocking back and forth, shaking his ugly head. “Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master’s dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir…”

“A flogging!” Hermione exclaimed, aghast. “Who do you work for, Dobby? That’s awful!”

“Dobby is a house-elf, madam, and bound to serve his masters. They punish Dobby when he is being a bad elf.”

“Dobby, you nearly got me and Ron expelled,” Harry said angrily.

“That’s not the point here,” Hermione cut in, which must’ve been historic, for he’d never known her to deem _anything_ more relevant than expulsion. “Why are you wearing that, Dobby?” she asked, voice a mix of fury and horror as Dobby wiped his eyes on the corner of the filthy pillowcase he wore.

“’Tis a mark of the house-elf's enslavement, madam. Dobby can only be freed if his masters present him with clothes.” He mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, “Harry Potter _must_ go home! Dobby thought his bludger would be enough—”

“ _Your_ bludger?”

Dobby flinched. It had been Tim that had spoken.

“Dobby wants to save Harry Potter’s life!” he said tearily. 

“You could’ve killed him.”

“Kill him? Dobby would never! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell my _why_ you wanted me sent home in pieces?” Harry asked.

“Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. “If he knew what he means to us lowly, us enslaved dregs of the magical world! Harry Potter triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he shines like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought those Dark days would never end… And now, terrible things are to happen, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more—”

Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then made to slam his head on Harry’s bedside table. Tim caught him midleap, keeping him struggling futily in his arms. 

“So there _is_ a Chamber of Secrets?” Harry whispered. “And— did you say it’s been opened before? _Tell_ me, Dobby!”

“Stop, can’t you see he’s distressed!” Hermione cried, rushing towards the frantic elf.

“Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby,” he wailed, still trying to get out of Tim’s grip and brain himself on the table. “Ask no more, Harry Potter, you must go home! Dark deeds are planned in this place, you must—”

He suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside. “Dobby must go,” the elf breathed. With a sharp crack, he was gone.

Tim and Hermione scrambled under Harry’s bed, just as Dumbledore entered in a long wool dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed.

Hermione sucked in a breath. Tim squeezed her hand tightly. They both knew what had happened even before Madam Pomfrey rushed out of her private quarters asking what was the matter.

Another person had been petrified. And they were running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I don't accept anything that happened in Book 8.
> 
> Tim: are we talking multiparticle configuration space?
> 
> Blaise: [narrowing his eyes] you made that word up just to make me look dumb, didn't you.
> 
> Tim: 🤠
> 
> (He didn't in fact)
> 
> I wanted to write so much more this week, but then I started Haikyuu... the rest is history, as they say
> 
> [cries because my word document is empty but Oikawa is SO FUCKING COOL HDBDJDH]


	34. Warning Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim finally confronts Theo about his home life.

Tim was probably better rested than he had been in months, courtesy of the number of times he’d fallen asleep attempting to induce a vision. Unbothered by his growing frustration, or the fact that Not-Sleep-Deprived Tim was actually genuinely terrifying (according to Slytherin House), the future remained locked away and inaccessible.

By the twelfth attempt, it was only Hermione who still bothered monitoring the experiment. The two of them had tried a dozen variations on heat to overpowering smell of incense ratio to create the perfect Trelawney’s classroom-esqe atmosphere in which Tim could achieve that weird half-awake, half-asleep state he’d been in with the last vision.

The only thing they succeeded in was gaining headaches and leaving the Wardrobe stuffy and smelling faintly of sage and marijuana (an unexpected but not entirely surprising find in Trelawney’s cabinets) for days to come.

Fed up, Tim marked that tactic as a dead end. Alone in the dorms later that night, he pondered further on how to achieve a vision. And tentatively, the idea crept into his mind. He almost dismissed out of hand, but it latched on.

The best way to straddle the line between waking and sleep… 

_Dear Jason,_

_You know how I told you about the cat being turned into stone by some type of dark magic, and how I’m trying to activate my future-telling powers to stop another attack? Well, about that. It’s not going well. As to say— nothing has been working so far, but good news: I have an idea! It’s a spectacularly bad idea, before you scold me for it, YES, I’m self-aware enough to realize that, HOWEVER— I really need to figure out a way to stop these attacks. Attacks plural, because there’s been another one, and it’s a kid this time._

_The only thing I remember about the times I’ve had those visions is that I don’t remember falling asleep, and that the visions felt so real, it was like I was awake. That’s the key, I’m sure it is. I need to somehow get myself into a suspended state between sleep and wakefulness._

_That’s where the induced sleep paralysis we figured out how to engineer kicks in._

_Think about it. It’s perfect. Risky, yes— but if this doesn’t work, than I really don’t anything else will._

_I need a single dose of that chemical balance Bruce and I calculated. I can get it myself, but it’ll raise eyebrows and will probably take a lot of back channels and a lot of time. Time I don’t have. I need your help._

  
Jason’s reply was, as anticipated, not pleased.

_What THE FUCK are you thinking, Timbo? INDUCING SLEEP PARALYSIS? Forget it. I’m putting my responsible, more-experienced-Robin foot down here. You’re a detective, aren’t you? You don’t need future telling powers to figure this out._

  
_While normally I’d agree, these aren’t NORMAL circumstances Jason. We are being TARGETED. The attacker is trying to mimic an old blood purist myth: that a hidden ‘monster’ will purge the school of dirty blood. They’re trying to drive us out of Hogwarts, Jay. I need a new angle, one that the wixens more experienced and more powerful than me don’t have— because they’ve failed at getting behind these attacks, and I can’t afford to._

  
_JESUS, TIM. Tell me you’re being protected! If someone’s targeting those of non-magical descent, TELL ME you guys at least have law enforcement watching your backs round the clock._

  
_Jay, it’s either conform or gtfo here. They don’t give a shit about Muggleborns; they want you to stuff yourself into a mold and comply to their rules and their views and if you do that, they’ll give you the benefit of pretending you’re not different. That’s what it means to be progressive here: it means conformism is integration and integration means blood purity is a scam; it’s an outdated concept; it doesn’t exist anymore; it’s not real as long as we’re all the same. And if you refuse to be the “same” you have to leave the Wizarding World, there’s no place for you here. They’re not going to go out of their way to protect us, they’re not even acknowledging we’re in danger. There’s no law enforcement being called in, Jay. They don’t give care enough and they can afford to fail at keeping us safe; I can’t._

_God fucking dammit. One dose._

_And I hope you’re not taking any shit from racists. You buy me a magic ticket to your fucking Willy Wonka school and I’ll introduce each and every one of them to my fist. Just say the word._

_I’ll need a little while to get the chemicals ready without Bruce noticing. It better be the last fucking time you pull some shit like this and don’t even fucking try me on that._

_Don’t conform to anyone’s standards. I know you have higher ones anyways, you crazy fucking nerd. Stay safe._

  
Tim held the letter tight in trembling hands and blinked the wetness from his eyes. “Thanks, Jason,” he whispered quietly. He’d send a letter back later, but first: he had to convince his _other_ friends of the validity of this plan, and that was going to be a whole other battle.

It was Saturday, six days after the Dobby Incident. His friends were most likely at the Wardrobe.

He was hurrying down the hallway towards it, lost in thought, when he nearly collided with someone coming the other way. He managed to steady the unlucky stranger by the shoulders, blinking moments later into wide silvery eyes.

“Oh,” the girl said softly.

“Sorry,” Tim said. She was still staring at him in an expression somewhat… not all there, so kept holding her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“You have an infestation of Blibbering Humdingers,” the girl responded, sounding a strange mix of both lost in thought and completely serious at the same time.

“What?” Tim asked. He looked up into the air above his head, where she had been staring dreamily.

“You should be more careful,” she told him, meeting his eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” he said awkwardly. “I will be, um… sorry for bumping into you.”

“That’s fine,” she said airily. “Where are you headed?”

“I was going to see my friends.”

“They’re probably in the Wardrobe, aren’t they?” 

Tim did a double take. “Oh, you— yeah, they probably are. I haven’t seen you around though?”

“I haven’t been yet,” she said. “Ginny promised to show me the way, but she’s been distracted lately. She’s got a particularly persistent Umgubular Slashkilter leeching off her.”

“An Umgubular Slash…kilter?”

She gave him a serious look. “Hers is much worse than yours.”

“Mine?”

“Your Blibbering Humdingers. It’s a bad infestation, but they’re generally much less harmful than the Slashkilter.”

“Okay… tell you what,” Tim said. “Since I was on my way to the Wardrobe anyways, why don’t I show you the way? And meanwhile, you can tell me about this… Slashkilter.”

“Really?” She looked surprised. “Most people don’t believe in them.”

“They don’t?”

“Because they can’t see them,” she said. “My name’s Luna, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Luna,” Tim said. He started leading them down the corridor. “I’m Tim. So are you the only one who can see these, um… creatures?”

“Surely not,” Luna said. “Although I’ve never met another person who can. They’re not creatures either.”

“No?”

“It’s a common misconception. You’re thinking of Thestrals, aren’t you?”

Tim stared at her. “… I was.”

“It’s similar,” she told him with smile he couldn’t quite gage. “I mean, who am I to know what relation Thestrals actually have to death? But Thestrals are living, breathing animals.”

“So are the, um, Humdingers and the Slashkilter? Are those like… concepts?”

Luna giggled. Tim got the feeling she was laughing at him and, perplexed, asked, “What?” She hid her smile behind a hand, earrings swaying with her as she laughed. Tim realized they were actually radishes. She was also wearing necklace made of bottle caps.

“What’s so funny?” he asked helplessly, a smile tugging at his own lips at her genuine amusement.

She shook her head. “You’re a very nice person, Timothy,” she said softly. “I don’t know why you have the Humdingers so keen, but as long as you’re more careful, you should be fine.”

“Yeah? Okay, um, you too. Be more careful, I mean. Bumping into someone is a mutual endeavor, you know.”

“A momentary alignment of individual fates,” she said sagely. “Oh, is this it?” They were approaching the Wardrobe. Tim watched, surprised, as she stopped in front of the door, which should have been rendered invisible to anyone not keyed into the Wards.

“How do you know?” he asked neutrally, although beneath the blank face, he was completely bewildered.

“There are a lot of Visedos gathered around here,” she explained, staring again blankly into the air around the door. 

Tim looked back and forth between her and the empty air. “How about I show you how to get in?” he suggested finally.

She grinned at him brightly. “That’s a great idea,” she said. “The Humdingers wouldn’t come after you for that one.”

Tim laughed, the way you laughed when deeply confused, but also because he liked Luna and was sort of caught between bafflement and amusement. He keyed her into the wards. Hopefully he’d see her around.

#

It took half an hour of intense debate with Hermione, with Harry, Ron and Blaise sitting in beanbags behind her, arms crossed and most disapproving looks as reinforcement, before he managed to wrangle an agreement out of his friends for the latest installment of _Project Induce Vision_.

“It’s foolproof,” he insisted, “there’s no safety risk. I made this thing _myself_.”

“We trust in your creative genius, man,” Ron said, “it’s more about how far you’re willing to go. You wouldn’t go sacrificing a castle just for the _uncertain possibility_ of perhaps maybe getting your opponent’s queen.”

“I’m not sacrificing anything,” Tim huffed.

“Yes, but this plan betrays a certain self-destructiveness that’s concerning,” Hermione asserted. “We know how ambitious you are, and that’s something we admire and respect. But it’s dangerous when you let it eclipse other things. Like personal safety. Right, Harry?”

“Right,” Harry agreed, “you gotta pull a line somewhere.”

Tim sighed, frustrated. They were worried for him, he got that— but sentimentalism was getting in the way potentially saving _lives_. If it was a question between Tim or the mission, the mission had to come first, but— well, Ron’s metaphor was apt in the sense that getting the opponent’s queen wasn’t the only way to get them into checkmate.

“So the line gets drawn here,” he conceded. “If _this_ doesn’t work— _then_ I’ll put Project Induce Vision down as a failure. But I have to at least try first.”

His friends reluctantly accepted these terms. Tim felt like maybe they’d be less critical of this self-destructive tendency if it was put into perspective by his other ones, maybe by seeing his updated training regime (and all the heights included) or something like that. Then again, watching their friend practice dodging bullets would probably raise other concerns.

People not from Gotham just wouldn’t get it.

#

On the 7th of December, Snape hung up a list in the Common Room. Students staying at Hogwarts over the break were to sign it.

Draco was making a big mocking spectacle about how Potter would have to stay at school over the break, and how Weasley’s parents probably asked him not to come home over the holidays so as not to be eaten out of their own house.

Tim made direct eye contact with him while striding up to the list and signing his name on it. Blaise followed right behind him. 

“So you’re not staying in Gotham over the break?” Blaise asked as they settled into armchairs at the side of the Common Room.

“Too much to do at Hogwarts,” Tim said. “We’ve got to get behind these attacks as quickly as possible. Although it really will suck not to... you know.”

“Feed into your reckless savior complex and go around beating up criminals like some sort of Robin Hood wannabe?” Blaise asked with an eyebrow raise.

“Oh, shut up. I told you that in confidence.”

“And I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“No, you’ve just made so many pointed barbs about it that I halfway regret it.”

“Don’t act like it was actually a choice in the first place,” Blaise snorted delicately, inspecting his nails. “I was on to your case from the first day you got back. You wouldn’t have gotten away with _not_ telling me.”

That, unfortunately, was true. Tim trusted Blaise as far as he could throw him, and to be honest, that was a decent and steadily increasing amount. But they were both Slytherins and had very poignant differences on the “should you or should you not go out of your way to help people” account. So Tim had kept his strange new magical core a secret from Blaise, and he sure as hell hadn’t intended to let him in on Robin.

Then Blaise had cornered him and mercilessly jabbed his fingers into Tim’s ribcage, where there was a still healing bruise from Two Face’s goon throwing him into a metal crate. Tim hadn’t been able to repress a wince and Blaise had said, “Who gave you this? Spit it out,” before proceeding to debunk every excuse he came up with.

(“None of the kids here could’ve gotten close enough to give you this. I know your magic has been weirdly overpowered since you came back and you could’ve put anyone here on their ass— don’t even try to deny that.”

“It must be from your time in Gotham, and no, you couldn’t have _just_ bumped into a wall hard enough to give you a bruise that lasts at least a week, and it couldn’t have been from your showdown with the Joker, since that happened too long ago.”

“You wanna know what I think? I think Gotham is a place where you get injuries like this in three ways, and since I doubt you were mugged and beaten up, or were caught in a supervillain attack that I hadn’t heard of, scouring the Gotham newspapers every day like I was, I think you got this _fighting_ someone, and there’s only one reason I can think of for why tiny, dumb, reckless you would be doing that.”)

So it had come out. And Tim had to admit, it could’ve gone worse. He was almost… _glad_ it happened, because Blaise had cemented something in their friendship by keeping the secret. 

“Yes, I’m so grateful to have a friend so aggressively insistent on butting into my privacy,” he said with an eye roll.

Blaise shrugged. “Since our friendship was built on you butting into _mine_.”

“Right,” Tim grumbled. “Point to you.”

Blaise smirked. Then, although his expression didn’t change, a significant seriousness entered his voice when he said, “You really should count yourself lucky I haven’t told the Gryffindors yet. You would _deserve_ the shit they’d give you.”

“Blaise Zabini,” Tim warned lowly, “under no circumstances _ever_ are you to tell them, or _anyone_ else. I’m not kidding about this.”

Blaise gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I won’t,” he said finally. 

Tim trusted him, but he also knew Blaise would go back on his word if he thought it best. The matter was simply whether their ideas of ‘best’ aligned. And when it came to the notion of “you gotta do what you gotta do”— Blaise was the only of Tim’s friends who really understood. Even if he didn’t share the same opinions on what it was to be done.

So— although it hadn’t been by choice— Tim trusted him with this secret. But breaking that trust would probably break their friendship, and Blaise knew that too.

“So you’re staying over the break too,” Tim remarked, changing the subject. “I thought you’d want to celebrate Yule at home?”

“You’ve been reading those books I gave you,” Blaise said, sounding surprised.

“Sure. I mean, I don’t want to be ignorant on Wizarding culture. And talking to Draco is enough of a minefield without him getting insulted by me not knowing who his great-grandfather was.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Draco’s an entitled ponce.”

“He is, but knowing is still advantageous in any case. And the book on Wizarding traditions and rituals is really fascinating. But why aren’t you going home for Yule? I thought the custom was for the entire family to be together.”

“Same reason as you, I guess,” Blaise grumbled. “Giant monster on the loose and all. You’ll probably need my help,” he said, and Tim could swear there was a flush to his cheeks, “since you’re so reckless you could practically pass as Gryffindor.”

“Aw, Blaise,” Tim teased, delighted, “are you a softie on the inside after all?”

“Shut up,” Blaise muttered. “Shortstack,” he tacked on for good measure.

Tim laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

#

However, Wizarding tradition being to celebrate Yule together, the rest of the Slytherin purebloods would all be heading home for the break, and among them, Theo Nott.

In the days leading up to the break, the boy became sullen and reserved. He could usually be found at Draco’s heels, now he often lagged behind, chose to distance himself from his friend— no wonder, considering Draco’s bragging about the Yule festivities at Malfoy Manor increased in intensity with each day they drew nearer.

It was easy, therefore, for Tim to catch him alone. Even easier to usher him into an abandoned classroom, since the moment Theo caught sight of _who_ it was that was steering him by the elbow, he froze up and followed woodenly.

He backed up cautiously as Tim shut the door and cast privacy wards. Theo wasn’t _scared_ of Tim Drake or anything— and he would continue to sneer and mime revulsion at the boy when they passed each other in the halls— but there were _certain_ rumors making their way through Slytherin House and being _alone_ with Tim Drake was a different thing altogether, especially since he’d had the dubious pleasure before, and been mercilessly blackmailed to show for it.

“What do you want,” he said flatly.

Tim bit his lip. This wasn’t the type of thing where tact was much use. Might as well just come out and say it straight.

“Your father is an abuser.”

Theo went still. “W-What?”

“He’s an abuser. And you’re not safe when you go home.”

Theo’s perfectly blank expression began wavering.

“He beats you and he has something to do with your mother’s disappearance,” Tim continued.

“My mother’s dead,” Theo whispered.

Tim was silent. Theo’s face was displaying genuine terror now. “What do you want?” he asked weakly.

“I want to help you.”

Theo stared at him for a long moment, shocked silent. Then he laughed, harsh and grating like a mouthful of glass. “Help me? _Help_ me?” he snarled. “What are you going to do— call the Aurors, the Child Protection Division? My father can have them turning tail before they even reach our front door. This isn’t the Muggle World, you cuck. You can’t help me, so don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

A desperate animal was a dangerous animal, and if Theo was anything, he was desperate. It was in the way the venom on his face didn’t match the hollowness of his eyes, it was in the way the muscles corded in his thin arms as he tensed, ready to fight, flee, _anything_ — anything to survive, anything to escape. Theo wanted, more than anything, to escape. It had taken a little while for Tim to recognize that it wasn’t disgust that made the pureblood hate him, but jealousy. He’d take the Muggle world over the Wizarding world any day if it meant getting free of his father.

“There is a ritual,” Tim said carefully, “that would have all damage inflicted upon you transferred back onto the attacker. I have the means to perform this ritual.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s… rituals like _that_ … can only be _blood_ magic.”

“You might be aware, but I’m quite proficient in Runes. I’ve modified the ritual— any piece of your father’s body will do.”

Theo’s mouth curled in disgust. “What?”

“I mean hair, nails, anything. Do you have a piece of your father’s hair?”

Theo was silent for a long while. Then, in a shaky voice, he repeated, “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. I swear on my magic that I have told nothing but the truth for the duration of this conversation. So mote it be.”

Theo’s jaw was somewhere on the floor with his shattered expectations. He swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

“Just everything you know about the Chamber of Secrets, please and thank you.”

“The Chamber of Secrets? I don’t know anything about—”

“But you can find out. I’m sure even if _you_ don’t know anything, someone else in your family might.”

“… right.”

Tim waited patiently. Finally, Theo said, “I have some of my father’s hair.”

“Here? At Hogwarts?”

Theo shot him a disdainful look. “Obviously.”

Tim repressed a grin. There was really only one reason to collect people’s hair (the same reason Ron, Harry and Hermione kept hounding Draco’s lackeys), and while he wasn’t very surprised a Slytherin might therefore be in possession of their parents’ hair, he _was_ duly impressed.

“Well,” he said, “more power to you then. Let’s do this thing, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just make it clear: this fic is STILL gen, and it will stay that way. But someone once commented about Blaise and Tim being the ultimate power couple and goddammit, now i can't unsee it—
> 
> Tim confronting Theo!! Finally!! I've been so antsy for this, it was the greatest relief to finally write haha.
> 
> Hope you're doing well and staying safe! ♡♡


	35. Birth Of A Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione makes certain decisions a little earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for description of animal murder
> 
> Skip from “The figure leaned down” to “and then a warbling voice was saying”

They decided to do the ritual on the last day before the break. Until then, Tim still had a number of things to get done. Primarily; visiting Borgin and Burke’s, so as to “investigate” what dark, illegal artefacts Lucious Malfoy was trying to get rid of.

A bullshit excuse, since whatever old, dark artefact may or may not be responsible for the current shitshow obviously wasn’t at Borgin and Burke’s anymore, but at Hogwarts. No, Tim was much more keen on perusing their illegal book collection. 

With a Hogsmeade trip scheduled for that weekend, it was the perfect opportunity to sneak out of the castle. 

Tim’s Hogsmeade pass had unfortunately been repurposed back when he’d faked a dying uncle, but that wasn’t much of a setback for a person intimately acquainted with Hogwarts’ secret passageways.

Tim borrowed the Marauder’s Map and applied a tremendous amount of makeup to turn himself into a grizzled old man. Glamors were tricky things, and he didn’t want to risk blowing his face up with his unstable magic. Luckily, the art of deception via makeup was a skill Janet Drake deemed necessary for a young heir in the public spotlight, so his disguise was nothing if not convincing, if Tim could say so himself.

He snuck out of Hogwarts and into the Hog’s Head, which had a Floo connection to the Leaky Cauldron. From there on it was just a few blocks to Knockturn Alley. 

Tim paused by the entrance to take it in— grimy bricks, a crooked sign displaying the street’s name and weak, flickering candle light. He drew his hood over his head and stepped through the narrow entrance.

The storefronts were dark and cramped. Tim’s skin crawled with the unsettling feeling of eyes on him. But Knockturn did not convey the same feeling as, for example, Crime Alley, where you couldn’t go two steps without stumbling upon a drug deal, getting mugged (if lucky) or murdered (if unlucky), or the Cauldron, an area in Gotham known for organized crime, and where you could find anything for the right price. Walking through Knockturn, passing hobbling creatures in rags, people who glared at him suspiciously, hags advertising their services from the street corners, Tim got more of an East End or Bowery feel.

 _Are these the dredges of Wizarding society?_ Tim wondered, passing another person with features vaguely off-putting enough to mark them as ‘not quite human’. _Are_ _these the forgotten, the cast aside?_

 _‘An alley devoted to the Dark Arts’— my fucking ass,_ Tim thought sourly, counting what he was pretty sure was the fifth werewolf. _These people are dirt poor. There’s a difference between organized crime and the type that arises when there’s no other option._

He finally reached Borgin and Burke’s, excitement at possible discovery mostly spoiled. It made his gruff, brusque voice when he addressed the clerk more realistic.

“I hear this is the type of establishment to offer the objects other men might want off their hands,” he said.

The clerk, a stooped man with hair greasy enough to rival Snape’s, eyed him through narrowed eyes. “Borgin and Burke’s,” he said in an unfriendly voice, “offers objects to fulfill the desires of _any_ customer.”

“I'm pleased to hear that. I also hear there have been a number of ministry raids lately,” Tim said, “and, well— one man’s trash is another’s treasure.”

“Borgin and Burke’s has no affiliation to the recent ministry raids,” the clerk said, clearly distrustful.

 _He’s not taking the bait_. There was probably some sort of code word or something, to avoid undercover law enforcement. “I’ll just have a look around then,” Tim said. He didn’t really care for Lucius Malfoy’s cast-offs anyways. Although he did slip a bug beneath the ledge of the till. Finding out what the code word was would be helpful either way.

He could feel the clerk’s eyes on his back as he walked deeper into the store. It was dusty and dimly lit. Sinister looking masks stared down from the walls, rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. The back shelf was lined with books, and it was towards it Tim made a beeline. But before he could reach the shelf, a large cabinet caught his attention. 

It was the magic surrounding it, to be more exact. Like passing by a cracked window, where the draft brought a momentary gust of fresh air and the scent of outside to your face. If the shop’s magic could be described as stuffy and slightly rank, like something fermenting— the magic emanating from the cabinet was a cool breeze disturbing the otherwise stale air.

Tim paused. He considered the old piece of furniture. Using his fake wand, he prodded open the door, careful not to touch it. He didn’t think it was cursed, but you could really never be too careful. The feeling of he strange magic intensified, like he was standing directly in front of a window.

“What is it?” he asked the clerk, who had come to stand at his shoulder. 

“A Vanishing Cabinet,” the clerk replied. “Are you interested in buying?”

Tim didn’t reply, wary of the forceful shopkeeper. He knelt down to inspect the series of runes engraved at the bottom of the wood. “There’s a matching pair required, isn’t there?” he asked. He couldn’t understand all the runes, but he clearly recognized the linking ones.

The clerk sounded displeased as he grunted, “The stuff you put in shows up in the matching cabinet.”

“And where is this other cabinet?”

He was given a very unfriendly look. “If I knew it’d be in here, wouldn’t it?”

“Right. Is this one functional?”

“Yes.”

Tim shot the man a suspicious look, and received a leer in return. “Well, functional in theory is secondary considering its useless without the second half of the set. I’m curious about it though… so I’ll give you a hundred Galleons for it.”

“It’s a masterful sample of magic and craftsmanship,” the clerk argued. “You won’t be able to find even _half_ of a set anywhere else on the market. Two hundred Galleons would still be undervaluing it.”

“And you won’t be able to find anyone to buy half the set anywhere or _anytime_ else. It’s been sitting in your shop for a while already hasn’t it? The back panelling’s half rotted. A hundred Galleons.”

“150.”

“125, and that’s the highest I’ll go.”

The shopkeeper scowled. “Fine. Sold.”

Tim hummed, pleased. It really was a fascinating piece of magic, and maybe he could figure out a way to locate the other cabinet using the link between them. If that didn’t work, he could always try to duplicate the runes and make his own set. Did it only work on objects or could people be transported within the cabinets too? Was their any distance limit?

Could he, for example, get into a cabinet at Hogwarts, and pop out of one in Gotham? Or was that just wishful thinking?

Either way, he was eager to find out.

#

He was just emerging from the secret passageway behind the statue of the witch with the crooked hat on the third floor, when someone rounded the corner.

Tim froze, cursing himself for not first checking the Marauder’s Map. He’d been preoccupied transporting the levitating Vanishing Cabinet and had forgotten.

It was Ginny that came down the corridor. Tim prepared himself to make some sort of excuse for why, in his coat and the remnants of makeup still caked on his face, he was obviously returning from outside via forbidden secret passageway. 

But Ginny spared him not a single glance, engrossed, instead, in a thin black notebook. Her gaze seemed strangely blank. Tim watched her pass by in confusion, and noted how untidy her hair and clothes were— unusual for the girl he’d seen spend hours on her appearance trying to impress Harry over the summer.

Maybe she’d grown out of that phase? Either way, Tim was lucky she’d been so caught up in her thoughts, or he’d have a lot of uncomfortable explaining to do.

He reached the Wardrobe without any further incidents. His friends watched him install the Vanishing Cabinet and engrave runes to stop people from going near it with little enthusiasm. 

“You were supposed to search for the dark objects Lucius Malfoy got rid of,” Ron said reproachfully, “not go furniture shopping.”

Tim tried for a bashful smile. Luckily, they didn’t linger on the failed mission for long, since Hermione had some “exciting news”.

“SPEW…?” Blaise said, reading the badge he’d been handed.

“It stands for ‘Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare’,” Hermione explained. “I was originally going to name it ‘Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status’, but it wouldn’t have fit on a badge.”

“Elfish welfare…” Blaise said slowly.

“Exactly. I didn’t even _know_ wizards were so backward to still use slavery! But you guys saw Dobby,” she said to Tim and Harry. “He was in an _awful_ state! And the worst part is that people like his _owners_ ,” she spit out the word, “can get away with such abuse without anyone even knowing! Something has to be done about it.”

“House elves aren’t slaves,” Ron said slowly.

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, hair already bushing up as it did when she was gearing up for an argument.

“At least, they’re not supposed to be!” Blaise cut in quickly. “I mean, they’re dependent on their mas— er, _employer’s_ magic. They _need_ wizards to bind to, otherwise they’ll die. And in return, they serve their employer. It’s symbiotic.”

“Not symbiotic if one side literally needs the other to survive, and the other could do without them. That’s a relationship built on a power imbalance and that’s what allows for house elves to be so ruthlessly exploited.”

“But Hermione,” Ron protested, “house elves _like_ serving! Fred and George are constantly telling us how the house elves literally flood them with food whenever they visit the kitchen—”

“ _There are house elves working at Hogwarts?!_ ” Hermione screeched.

“Hermione,” Blaise said weakly, “who else did you think keeps the entire castle clean? Washes our clothes? Surely not _Filch?_ ”

Hermione gaped. Then her expression hardened and she slammed a piece of parchment down on the floor between them. “Sign,” she ordered.

 _SPEW Membership_ , the parchment read. _Entrance fee: 2 Sickles_

“You’re making us pay to enter?” Ron said, aghast.

“Hermione, I think you’re jumping the gun on this—” Blaise started, then paused, eyebrows raised in disbelief as Tim signed his name.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Tim said. “House elves might be dependent on a binding to a wizard, but there should definitely be laws to protect them from abuse within the binding. Like labor laws, you know? In fact— why stop at house elves?” He mused, thinking of the faces he’d seen in Knockturn Alley. “Magical creature discrimination in general would definitely be something to look into.”

Hermione looked like Christmas had come early. “Magical creature discrimination… should I rename it to Society for the Promotion of Creature Welfare? SPCW? But no, it doesn’t flow the same…”

“How about Society for the Promotion of Elfish and Associated Rights,” Tim suggested. “Short: SPEAR.”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “‘And Associated’ sounds really weird.”

“Yeah, I don’t think werewolves, vampires and the like will appreciate being lumped in as ‘Associated’ to elves,” Blaise pointed out.

“But SPEAR is a pretty badass name,” Harry said. He signed the parchment. “And seeing as Hermione started it chiefly to campaign for elf rights, it makes sense they be highlighted in the name.”

Finally, they managed to bully Ron into signing. But Blaise remained steadfast. No pestering or even threatening looks and merciless guilt-tripping on Hermione’s part would convince him to sign his name.

“The Zabini’s are a neutral family. We don’t pick sides in conflict, much less partake in any form of _grassroot activism_. It’s unbecoming.”

“ _Unbecoming?_ If you don’t stand up against what’s _wrong_ , you’re _also_ wrong!” Hermione exclaimed angrily. “How can you see a clear form of injustice right in front of your eyes and still refuse to recognize it?”

“It’s not about recognizing it,” Blaise growled lowly, staring hard at the ground in front of him. “I agree with you, all right? _You guys_ don’t even _know_ how serious creature discrimination is. But I know people… I’ve seen—” he cut himself off with a frustrated huff. “Listen. I can’t sign my name. But I’ll sign someone else’s. It’s a partially magically binding agreement, isn’t it?” he asked with a look at Hermione. She nodded. “It doesn’t discern the signee by name, but by magical signature. So if I do sign,” he said, scrawling _Bruce Wayne_ across the parchment, “no one has to know… but you four.”

He looked up, catching Tim’s gaze. Tim gave him a crooked smile. “Well, forgery aside, thanks for securing us the investment of one of the richest men alive.”

Blaise rolled his eyes with good humor, muttering, “Not like you couldn’t have actually done it yourself,” under his breath. 

#

The small package arrived at breakfast the next morning. Tim peeked inside to see a thin vial, and a note written in all caps.

_IT’LL LAST TWO HOURS. THIS BETTER WORK OUT, YOU DUMBASS. BE CAREFUL._

He shut it and looked up, meeting Blaise’s gaze. He nodded and Blaise’s expression hardened.

The chemicals for Project Induce Sleep Paralysis had arrived.

#

They decided to go through with the plan that afternoon. Shooing everyone out of the Wardrobe, Harry, Ron and Hermione dimmed the lighting and helped Tim get comfortable on a stack of pillows.

He took a deep breath. “Ready?” Hermione asked. He nodded. She injected the chemicals.

Tim felt his body slowly stiffening and his limbs going unresponsive. It was a frightening feeling. He tried taking deep breaths, and that worked for a bit, until a wave of silence washed over him and suddenly everything became muted, like when your ears pop in an airplane.

He tried to breathe and felt like he was choking. _Don’t panic_ , Tim told himself, _this is temporary._ But it felt too much like being trapped. And then suddenly there was something lurking just outside his peripheral. Tim tried to turn towards it, but he couldn’t move his neck. All he could do was move his eyes and try desperately to catch sight of whatever it was that lurked in the shadows.

And then it was coming closer. A hooded figure, bathed in glowing red. Tim watched it through the bars of the coop, immobile and terrified. 

The figure leaned down and opened the hatch, reaching into the coop. Tim couldn’t move. A hand closed around his neck and jerked roughly. There was a crack. 

Tim watched the scene from outside now. He was floating behind the hooded figure, watching as they fished around the chicken coop. He recognized the coop and the shrubbery around them. They were outside Hagrid’s hut. 

There was a strangled croak as the figure snapped another rooster’s neck. A loud bark suddenly emanated from Hagrid’s hut. The figure quickly got to their feet, drawing their cloak tight around them as they turned to flee. The last thing Tim saw was their hands, nearly black with blood. They mixed together with the shadows until everything was dark— 

—and then a warbling voice was saying, “You know you shouldn’t be out past curfew, young man” and Tim was watching from the shadows as Nearly Headless Nick scolded an abashed looking Justin Finch-Fletchley.

There was scraping, rumbling sound. Justin’s face was distorted through the ghost’s shimmering body as he screamed. Almost as soon as he had let out the piercing cry, he was falling to ground, rigid like a plank of wood.

Nearly Headless Nick turned around in alarm, eyes focusing on something down the corridor. Tim couldn’t move, he couldn’t see what it was. But Justin’s terrified face was etched into his mind. And just like the boy, Nearly Headless Nick barely had the time to gasp in horror before he too plummeted to the ground with a dull thud.

Tim jolted awake.

There were hands on his shoulders. He jerked backwards, shaking. 

“—im? Tim?” Harry’s voice broke through the muffled bubble around his ears. 

Tim gasped, digging the palms into his forehead to ground himself. Then he said, “We need to put alarm runes on the chicken coop.”

“Are you okay, Tim?” Hermione asked, tentatively placing a hand on his arm.

Tim forced the shudders racking him to subside. “I’m fine. It was just… jarring.”

“What happened?” asked Ron.

“I… I watched a hooded figure killing Hagrid’s roosters. I don’t know why. But on the same night— I think— Justin and Nearly Headless Nick were petrified.”

“Justin— you mean the guy who’s always playing table tennis with Terry Boot?” Ron said, eyes wide. 

“Another Muggleborn,” Hermione said grimly.

“So we should put alarm runes on Hagrid’s chicken coop,” Harry said, “and that way, when they’re tripped, we can cut the perpetrator off before they can enter the castle.”

“ _One_ small problem,” Blaise cut in. He’d been leaning against the corner of the room with a glower on his face the entire time. Now he pushed off from the wall and stalked towards them. “What’s to stop the perpetrator from just petrifying one of us? You can’t seriously think any one of us can hold their own against someone of that power. Better idea— we alert the _teachers_ , and _they_ deal with it.”

“We’d have to tell them how we got the information,” Harry reminded him. “And we’ve already established that we’re keeping Tim’s weird future-seeing powers a secret.”

“But what are you expecting to even _achieve_?” Blaise exclaimed, frustrated. “You’re just going to get _us_ petrified instead. Or maybe worse. Someone of that level? Come on. Tim, not even _you_ —”

“Maybe not in a fair fight,” Tim said quietly. “I don’t plan on fighting fair.”

Blaise glared at him, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Whatever I say, I’m not going to be able to change your mind, will I?”

Tim was silent. 

“All right, then tell me this,” Blaise growled, “if worse comes to worst, and it turns out you _can’t_ take them… what are you going to do?”

Ron’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two. “Um, I feel like you guys know something I don’t…”

“Tim is overestimating himself for the wrong reasons,” Blaise grit out.

“… but how about you just stay behind, Blaise?” Ron suggested.

“What?” Blaise turned on the redhead, eyes flashing. “If you think I’m going to just _let_ you guys die without—”

“Woah! Nobody said anything about dying, mate! Petrification’s not death!” Ron said, waving his hands. “And I was going to suggest you stay so you can go and alert a teacher in case we don’t return within a certain amount of time!”

“Ron,” Blaise said very deliberately, “your wand is literally _broken_. If anyone should be staying behind, it should be you.”

“No way!” Ron cried. “I had to sit out last time because of that too! I’m not doing it again.”

“That is,” Blaise stated, “the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard.”

“You can’t risk being caught with us trying to take out Slytherin’s Heir,” Hermione said. “You’d interfere with your family’s neutral reputation by taking such an obvious side.”

“Don’t talk to me about my family’s reputation,” Blaise hissed, but the way he averted his gaze revealed she’d cornered him.

“We need someone to monitor the situation from afar,” Tim said, who would have honestly preferred that person to be Ron, but didn’t want to make Blaise feel bad for the position his House’s reputation put him in— at least not in this context.

Blaise shot him a dirty look, then rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. You four better come up with a damn good plan.”

“On it, captain.”

#

On the last day before the students going home for the break departed, Tim and Theo met up in an abandoned classroom for the ritual. It was two straight hours of careful chanting, timed to the moon’s position in accordance to the Earth, with a continuous flow of magic being supplied by the ritual caster, Tim.

At the end of it, he resurfaced as from a dream, the world around him trickling back into awareness through the haze of magic he’d sunk into.

Before the Warehouse Debacle, AKA That Time Tim Did Something Weird With His Magic And Then Magic Did Something Weird To Him In Return, a ritual like this would have knocked him right the fuck out. It would have left him completely drained for days to come.

Now it left a beautiful ache tingling through his core like the soreness of a well-worked muscle. His magic hadn’t had the chance to be really stretched and exhausted like this yet, and it was a satisfying relief that enveloped him. 

Meanwhile, Theo watched him stretching his stiff limbs out after the ritual with wide eyes. Tim finally met his gaze, offering a tentative smile. “Is there something on my face?” he asked.

Theo blinked. “What the actual fuck.”

“What? What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?” Tim asked, frowning and shuffling over to where Theo was still sitting in the ritual circle. “There shouldn’t be any side effects. Can you tell me what you’re—”

“I’m fine,” Theo said, batting Tim’s concerned hands away from himself. Tim flushed and pulled back. “I’m just— you’re–…. How are you–… still conscious?”

“Conscious?” Tim looked down at himself. “I’m fine, dude. Don’t worry. I’m glad you’re okay too. I mean, I checked and double checked my calculations, and Professor Snape looked over them too, but accidents still happen sometimes… anyways, just keep me posted, okay? And happy Yule.”

“Happy…” Theo trailed off, completely perplexed. The he said, slowly, “Happy Yule. Um, thanks. I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most unrealistic thing in the fic isn't the magic but the fact that Tim is such a woke rich person lmao. Tim says unionize and eat the (corrupt) wealthy!!
> 
> I'm so sorry I haven't responded to any comments yet! As might have been deduced from the fact that I'm updating late, I've been a little swamped lately. I'll do my best to reply to the comments in the course of the next week!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter :')


	36. Stepping On Toes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim celebrates Christmas and Yule, and there are several revelations.

On the first day of winter break, Tim was surprised to see a familiarly pale pointy face sitting at the breakfast table. “Draco?” he asked, pausing. “I thought you were returning home?”

Draco sniffed. “Yes, well, I’ve decided to stay at Hogwarts over the break. _Of course_ I shall Floo home for the Yule celebration— my family throws an extraordinary gala every year, you know—”

“Yes,” Tim said, having only heard these exact words two hundred times in the past week.

“— but I thought I might enjoy the, um… experience,” he finished, glancing at Blaise, who stood next to Tim.

“The experience,” Blaise repeated, sounding amused. Tim just knew he was going to have a riot with this later in privacy.

“Yes,” Draco said, sniffing haughtily, “the experience.”

Blaise grinned and would have probably said something snarky, had Tim not tugged him away. “He’s getting off his high horse,” he told Blaise, “let’s not give him too much shit about it.”

“‘The experience’— oh, Merlin. I’ll never understand how his parents managed to raise a seventy-year-old in twelve years.”

Tim choked on his spit, and reminded himself never to have an argument with Blaise in public. The savage Slytherin could probably cut a man down in two sentences.

That evening, he was privy to another surprise, this one in the form of Draco handing him a sleek silver envelope. Tim surveyed its contents in astonishment.

“You’re… inviting me to your Yule Gala?” he asked, nonplussed.

“Well, not exactly me,” the boy replied, looking away in embarrassment. “My father is interested in meeting the muggleborn who managed to move up a Year so successfully.”

_Oh_. So _that’s_ what this was about.

Tim’s lips tilted upward in a crooked grin. “I’d be honored to meet the man who made it possible.”

“Don’t go getting a big head, Drake,” Draco said with an eyeroll. Tim was pleased to note he sounded exasperated rather than upset, as would have been the case a month ago. “You’re not exactly doing so well at the moment.”

“Oh, what’s a couple failed Charms lessons,” Tim said with the wave of an arm. “I’m still more competent than our current Defense professor.”

“It’s not like that’s a high bar,” Draco grumbled. 

“More competent than our previous two Defense professors. Combined.”

“Still not very impressive.”

There, he sadly had a point. The Hogwarts Defense curriculum certainly left something to be desired.

Later, Tim compared his invitation with Blaise’s. “You didn’t tell me you got one,” he said, running a hand over the glossy _House Zabini._

“I get one every year. It’s just formality. I’m more surprised about _you_ — although I guess I shouldn’t be. I saw you during First Year, when Draco kept talking down on you. I knew you were out for him and his people.”

“Out for him? Certainly not!” Tim said, affecting offense. “I’ll have you know that Draco and I are in a mutually prosperous agreement and I have nothing against him.”

Blaise hummed, letting himself fall back on his bed lazily. “Notice how you didn’t deny the second part of my accusation. And a mutually prosperous agreement would mean you’re getting something in return. I _am_ curious what kind of favor you have planned for him.”

“I didn’t deny your accusation because ‘his people’ is such a vague and imprecise term. What’s that even supposed to mean?”

Blaise snorted, not even looking away from where he was tracing idle sparks in the air. “Everyone in the Malfoy’s political faction. And _especially_ Lucius Malfoy. You don’t like him.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Tim said blithely. “We’re just twelve years old! There’s no need to be thinking about political factions.”

Blaise shot him such a deadpan look, it could have made an inanimate object develop self-awareness just to feel ashamed. “I knew the moment you orchestrated that scene in the dorms, you had your sights set on Malfoy. You could’ve gotten Board approval through different means— hell, you could’ve gone to Dumbledore, gotten _his_ considerable influence to back you. No, you wanted _Malfoy_ to endorse you. You wanted to humiliate him.”

“That’s a lofty accusation,” Tim said nonchalantly, “but I’ll admit I don’t really like him, no.” A grin spread across his face. “It _will_ be very satisfying to shake Lucius Malfoy’s hand— knowing he’d love nothing less.”

#

Christmas Day dawned bright and well— not _early_ , if you, like Tim, had been up until 3 AM busy with your most recent research project (tracking down the other Vanishing Cabinet)— but at least earlier than 11 AM, which was Tim’s usual time to rise and shine. Blaise was to thank for this; breaking into Tim’s dorm and walloping him with a pillow.

Blearily, the young Gothamite stumbled down to the Common Room, where the rest of the Slytherins had gathered. Presents had been neatly stacked by the hearth.

“Took you long enough, Drake,” the Malfoy heir scoffed, sprawled across the couch in silken pajamas and doing his best to appear relaxed and nonchalant. But the way he practically pounced on the presents after the Prefects had checked them for malicious curses betrayed him.

“Does anyone have coffee?” Tim mumbled groggily. 

Blaise threw a present at his face in reply.

Together, they unwrapped their respective piles. There weren’t many other Slytherins staying over the break— Draco, Crabbe and Goyle (who Tim wasn’t sure _could_ make decisions independent of Draco), almost all of the muggle raised halfbloods in the house, the prefects, and a couple of lone purebloods, who thought they might curry favor with Draco by joining him.

Tim had gotten them all presents— mostly just small things, like chocolates or ink bottles. It was, firstly, good to build connections, and two: it didn’t take a genius to figure out why most of the halfbloods weren’t going home, and their present piles looked a bit meager. 

He’d done this last year already, and was pleasantly surprised to find several gifts from a couple of them in his own pile. With a small smile, he set them aside.

“What…” Blaise’s incredulous voice drew his attention, “… is _this_?”

“A Weasley sweater!” Tim exclaimed, laughing at Blaise’s stupified expression as he held the chunky dark green sweater aloft.

“It’s…”

“Hideous!” Draco declared from across the Common Room.

“… touching,” Blaise finished, as if the other boy hadn’t spoken. “I… why would Ron’s mother make _me_ one?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Tim grinned, lifting up his own sweater proudly— teal blue, soft, with a warm yellow ‘T’ adorning it. It was his first year getting one as well, and there was giddy elation bubbling up in his chest, making him feel light. His parents’ gift consisted of a couple of books on accounting and a reminder they were expecting him to take the HSPT the following year— _so I hope you’re not neglecting your studies, Timothy_ , his mother wrote on a postcard from Pompeii. In comparison to _that_ — the Weasley sweater was probably the most thoughtful gift Tim had received in years.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually going to wear that,” Draco began, and sputtered when Tim promptly tugged his on over his head. “What–… but–… but it’s ugly!” he cried, confused. “The fabric is uneven, the letter is–… is tacky, Drake, you could have a much more presentable sweater commissioned at Twilfit and Tatting’s—”

“Draco,” Tim said, wondering how rude he could get away with being, “I like this one, so shut up, please.”

Draco gaped, but did indeed shut up. Blaise chuckled to himself, neatly folding the sweater at his side. The way he brushed his hand over the large ‘B’ revealed his genuine appreciation of the gift.

Tim opened a large box giftwrapped in patterns of Santa taking a piss— immediately recognizable as Jason’s work— to see several objects that had him practically vibrating from excitement.

There was a book of programming problems, hand-written by Barbara, along with a walkman that had been coated in Adversium. Jason had sent a collection of short stories and a sweater that said ‘I NaP periodically’— the ‘I NaP’ consisting of periodic elements, of course. Dick had sent him an entire box of sweets and a vibrant green scarf, hand-stitched, by the look of it.

Alfred’s gift consisted of slightly more proficiently knitted gloves and arm warmers. Tim was appropriately awed by the fact that Alfred had thought to include practical pouches for both a wand and knives.

And at the bottom of the cardboard box there was another one, fingerprint-protected and enforced with steel. He already knew what would be inside and it had him grinning like a maniac, even though he’d only open once alone.

_Robin_. Redesigned, of course, to include pants. And a couple of other tidbits. Boy, was his next training session going to be fun.

“Happy?” Blaise asked him, eyeing the indeterminate sleek metal bar also in the box— most likely a weapon, although _what_ kind had Tim and Blaise exhibiting different levels of enthusiasm.

“Never more,” Tim grinned back.

#

That evening, Blaise, Draco and Tim gathered at the entrance to the Common Room. They were dressed in fine wizarding robes. Snape escorted them to Dumbledore’s office. They’d been granted permission to use the Floo to reach Malfoy Manor, where the Yule ball was taking place.

Draco chattered excitedly, all supercilious haughtiness and pomp. The wines would be imported from here, the decorations were commissioned from there, this and that guest would be coming, this and that guest had been dropped from the list of invitees after this or that scandal…

“Mother and father are anxious to have you over again, Uncle Sev,” Draco told Snape. He received a sharp look in return and quickly returned to his one-sided conversation with Blaise and Tim, cheeks coloring.

They reached the Headmaster’s office (password: gumdrops). Dumbledore greeted them with a genial smile. “Ah, to be young again,” he sighed dreamily, “to be young and to partake in the simple joys of life!”

“Merry Christmas and Happy Yule, Professor,” Tim told him with a diplomatic smile.

They stepped into the Floo. Tim had only used the method of transport twice before, so his exit from the fireplace at Malfoy Manor was not the most elegant. He brushed his robes off— dark blue with golden stitching on the rims. He’d taken care to neatly style his hair, with the front strands braided back and the rest held in place courtesy of a number of hair charms Draco had showed him. The Malfoy heir was a master of them. _Understandable_ , thought Tim, seeing Lucius Malfoy and his sleek, shimmering mane of platinum blond. Both he and his wife had come into the entrance foyer to greet their son.

Tim subtly categorized their interactions. Narcissa was more affectionate than her husband, who restricted himself merely to a shoulder squeeze and a significant Look at his son. Draco reveled in his father’s acknowledgement, lifting his chin in a pleased manner. His mother gave him a hug and kissed his cheeks. He turned a bright red, glancing back at Blaise and Tim, but returned the sentiment.

“Oh, dear Dragon,” Narcissa hummed. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“And your friends,” Lucius Malfoy said. There was a quality to his voice; a silky, drawling quality that had Tim comparing him to a spider personified; spinning an invisible web and catching you in its center, inexplicably drawn to him and unable to escape. Lucius Malfoy was no doubt a dangerous man.

“My family sends their warmest regards,” Blaise said politely, inclining his head towards the Malfoy’s. “My mother was quite saddened to not be able to make it.”

“We were likewise disheartened,” Narcissa said, “but we send our best wishes to her and…”

“Roberto,” Blaise said with the flash of a forced smile.

“Of course, Roberto.”

Then their eyes were on Tim. “Well met, Tim Drake,” Lucius Malfoy intoned.

Tim gave a perfect 45 degree bow. “Well met, Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy.” He met their sharp gazes placidly. Lucius extended a hand and Tim clasped it firmly.

“This must be your first Gala, Tim,” Narcissa said, as she led them down the hall and to the ballroom.

“Wizarding gala, ma’am. But the scene is more than familiar.”

“And you’re all too eager to apply your Muggle experiences to the Wizarding World,” Lucius remarked snidely.

“If I see possible benefit,” Tim replied, with an inner wince. Malfoy obviously didn’t intend even the guise of civility to mask his disdain. “I’m glad that so far we’ve been able to see eye to eye on that front.” 

Lucius smiled coldly. “Yes, those of us invested in education thought your Year-skipping idea was quite… interesting. Speaking of,” they’d reached the large doors to the ballroom, “might you be up to meeting a few of them? Your success has quite intrigued us.”

“I’d be happy to,” Tim said with a smile just as fake as the Lord Malfoy’s.

He’d spent the last few months trying to learn everyone who was _anyone_ ’s name in Wizarding society, so he recognized the group of wixen Lucius lead him to.

Zacharias Nott, Theo’s father. Lord and Lady Parkinson. Amycus and Alecto Carrow— twins, supporters of the Dark Lord in the First Wizarding War, who’d avoided imprisonment. Joseph Avery, another supporter of the Dark Lord who’d avoided imprisonment. And none, bar perhaps Lady Parkinson, who was also on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, could be described as “invested in education”.

_Go figure_ , Tim thought acidly, while Lucius Malfoy introduced him. _I guess I better watch my drink_ , he thought, nodding at the house elf that brought him a glass of champagne. He noted its clean silver toga, pinned with the Malfoy crest. He turned to the purebloods watching him.

“We’ve heard quite some things about you, Tim,” Lady Parkinson said, observing him over the rim of her wineglass. “Pansy tells me you’re Professor Babbling’s favorite student.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Tim answered humbly. “But I do greatly enjoy Runes.”

“Runes,” scoffed Amycus Carrow with an eye roll. “A branch of magic for those unable to use their own.” He cast Tim a spiteful look. “I suppose it matches the recent rumors circling you.”

“Now, Amy,” his twin simpered. “There’s no need to be rude. You know the boy recently lost an uncle. I’m sure such _tragedy_ would wreak havoc on _anyone’s_ magical control.” Her smile was cruel.

Tim gave her a blank look, pretending to sip his drink.

“It does cast the question,” Lord Nott said, and Tim’s eyes snapped to meet his, “how long the boy can keep up before he’s eventually moved back to the Year he belongs.”

Nott’s face was as sharply angled as his son’s. His eyes were dark, as seemed his entire complexion— there was a mottled wine-purple property to his skin, the stubble around his chin only further served to cast a permanent shadow on his face. And his magic was like tar. Tim could barely resist the urge to take a step back.

“That seems a question only asked by those not privy to my grades,” Tim answered, doing his best to seem unaffected, although he avoided eye contact with the man. “I’m sure Lord Malfoy would be pleased to see I am in no danger of failing my Year.”

“Don’t assume to know what would please me,” Lucius said darkly. His fingers briefly pressed into Tim’s spine, making him stiffen. “Why don’t you go find my son, Tim. He’ll introduce you to the rest of the children.”

Tim inclined his head, although exposing the back of his neck to the gathered company, watching him like a flock of raptors, made his skin crawl with unease. He left them.

That… honestly felt like it had gone pretty badly, although logically he knew it couldn’t have gone any better. Tim couldn’t go toe to toe with the heads of Wizarding Britain. He still lacked the resources, the information, the allies. Right now, swimming with them was the equivalent of deep diving with piranhas, and it was only Hogwarts that provided any measure of protection. 

Tim glanced back at them. Lord Nott was still watching him. Tim shot him a mean sort of smile, more a bare of teeth than anything good-natured. They shouldn’t get too comfortable on those rotting husks they called thrones. Tim could see right through them; could see they were built on lies and oppression. Those things didn’t last long, at least not when somebody like Tim came along, determined to smoke the whole place out.

Someday, Tim would come back to set their entire swamp on fire.

_And the first step to overthrowing a ruler is securing the succession_ , Tim thought, making his way towards Draco.

#

“What are you doing out here, Drake?”

Tim looked up. He’d taken a moment to retreat into the into the privacy of a tall hedge in the garden. He’d been mingling, networking and doing his best to keep up in the social game of “who’s out for whose guts” that the people at these gatherings liked to play. It had been nearly two hours. The headache had cropped up somewhere throughout the second. He was exhausted.

“Just taking a short breather,” he told Draco. “It was getting a little stuffy inside.”

Draco gave him an assessing look. “You do look a little flushed.”

Tim waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine in a moment.”

“We have to get back in twenty minutes,” Draco said, casting a _Tempus_ (only recently mastered under Tim’s tutelage— embarrassingly enough, Tim on the other hand, _still_ couldn’t).

Tim hummed, running the back of his sleeve across his damp forehead. He felt a bit feverish. He supposed maybe he had gone a little overboard with the last few all-nighters, and was now coming down with something— highly inconvenient, since _DON’T SHOW WEAKNESS_ was a dictum engraved in his brain for occasions like these.

Surprisingly, Draco didn’t further comment on the fact he was practically sagging against the hedge, or how he mopped his brow again. Instead, he snapped his fingers and called, “Dobby!”

There was a crack. A hunched creature in a dirty pillowcase materialized in front of the Malfoy heir.

With the way his head throbbed, it took Tim a moment to realize who had just appeared. But he recognized Dobby, the same elf who had broken through his wards in the hospital wing, and the house elf obviously recognized him, catching his gaze and freezing with a squeak.

“Master Draco, sir!” Dobby yelped. “What can Dobby do for you?”

Draco looked between Tim and the house elf, still quivering in place, with narrowed eyes. “Dobby,” he asked with startling astuteness, “do you know Tim?”

The house elf squeaked again and muttered something too high-pitched and fast to understand, before throwing himself onto the ground and banging his head repeatedly.

“Stop!” Draco cried in disgust. “Dobby, stop that at once!” He looked back to Tim, who was staring at Dobby’s hunched form with an unreadable expression. “I’m sorry about him, Drake. He’s a defect or something— always making a scene like this. We can’t even have him serving the guests with the rest of the elves— get up!” he said, kicking Dobby off his shoes, where he’d been kneeling and muttering about being a disgrace to the Malfoy House.

“Dobby,” Draco commanded with a sneer at the sniveling creature, “get Drake a Pepper-Up Potion.”

“O-Of course, young master,” the elf squeaked, disappearing with a crack.

Ten seconds of strained silence later, and the elf reappeared with a beaker of liquid held in a bony hand. “Thank you, Dobby,” Tim said after a pause, gingerly taking it from him. 

“Young sir is thanking Dobby? Oh, how you honor Dobby’s lowly heart! I see why Harry Potter might count young sir as a friend, how he might—” the elf cut himself off with a squeal, and threw himself violently into the hedge, from which sounds emerged that suggested he might be trying to strangle himself with the branches.

“Dobby!” Draco barked. “Don’t ruin Mother’s hedges!”

“Of course, Master Draco, Dobby is sorry! Dobby is a bad elf, oh, a very, very bad elf…” and he would have continued on like this, had Draco not sent him off brusquely, told to “for Merlin’s sake, not make more of a mess”.

The two boys stood in relative silence after he disappeared. Draco looked distinctly embarrassed. In the glow of the fairy lights floating over the garden, his cheeks were visibly stained red. “You didn’t need to thank him,” he grumbled. “He’ll be insufferable about it for days.”

“You must have your hands full with an elf like that,” Tim said slowly.

Draco shrugged uncomfortably. “Father has got him disciplining himself. I suppose it’s necessary… or we’d have time for nothing else. Are you going to drink?”

Tim blinked down at the Pepper-Up in his hands. It took him a moment to say, “Uh. Yeah. Thanks.”

“You really are out of it,” Draco scoffed.

Tim hummed non-commitantly, downing the potion (in reality, _Evanesco_ ’ing it— along with the glass, oops— before it could enter his mouth; he wasn’t going to ingest anything prepared by the Malfoy’s, good as Draco’s intentions might have been). “You know,” he said, gaze fixed on the sky above him, “I’ve thought of how you should pay back the favor you owe me.”

Draco startled. “What? Right now?”

Tim turned to give Draco a look unsettling enough to make him draw back. “Not now— maybe tomorrow,” he said. “We can agree upon a date later.”

“What is it?” Draco asked uneasily. He had good reason for his unease, as proven by Tim’s next statement.

“I want you to spend two hours alone with Hermione Granger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might get the next chapter out in a few days... stay tuned :)


	37. Slytherin's Heir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things happen... others are erased.

Tim was fully convinced that two hours with Hermione— in a setting where he had no choice but to actually _listen_ to her— would have Draco, if not ready to wholeheartedly pledge himself to the campaign for house elf rights, then at least to sign his name on the SPEAR parchment and recognize its value. The bushy haired Gryffindor witch was _not_ to be underestimated. What she lacked in tact, she made up for with sheer stubbornness, and the ability to recite enough statistics to make your head spin.

Unfortunately for the budding civil rights movement, Draco and Hermione did not get to have their scheduled meeting, not on the day following Yule, nor for a long time afterwards.

Because following Yule, everything went to shit.

#

It started, of course, with Lockhart. 

No supernatural seer-powers were necessary to foresee Lockhart’s Dueling Club being chaos. In fact, when Tim and Blaise showed up to it on the 26th, they were counting on it. As was the entire rest of the student body.

The approximately a hundred students that were staying over the break crowded around the dais that had been erected in the middle of the Great Hall, expecting grade A entertainment.

“Two galleons Snape puts him on his arse in three seconds flat,” Blaise said smugly, watching Lockhart introduce the sour looking Potions professor as his teaching assistant.

“Are you kidding me?” Darius Blishwick, the Slytherin prefect, said with a raised eyebrow. “Do you see his face? A second is all he’ll need, max.”

Tim grinned darkly. Almost half a Year of sitting through Lockhart’s useless lessons, earphones in and trying to block out the man’s simpering voice while he self-studied. And then there was the incident with Harry’s arm— oh, Tim was looking forward to seeing Lockhart’s ass being kicked. Maybe the man would even be so generous as to let a couple students have a crack at him too…

“As you can see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart announced to the ground. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry muttered, watching Snape baring his teeth.

“Oh, gruesome maiming is fine,” Tim said, sounding delighted. Hermione slapped him on the arm with a glare.

“One—two—three—”

Lockhart began a dramatic gesture with both arms. Meanwhile, Snape snapped his wand through a precise movement, shouting: “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Lockhart’s wand flew out of his hand, while he himself flew backward off the stage and slammed into the wall. There was an appreciative groan from the Hufflepuff side of the audience.

“Look how exact his wand movement was,” Blishwick sighed a little wistfully. “A five syllable incantation and it took him barely a second!”

“I thought _Expelliarmus_ was an easy spell,” Draco said, with a glance at Tim. 

Tim repressed his smirk, knowing Draco was thinking of the time in First Year when Tim had walked into Draco’s and Theo’s practice session, disarmed them both, and done the blackmailing equivalent of slapping them in the face.

“In terms of power?” Blishwick said. “Sure, anyone here could cast an _Expelliarmus_. But in a duel, the Disarming Charm is _awful_. Five syllables that have to be exactly timed to the wand movement. You’re more likely to get hit with an _Avada_ before you can get halfway through the incantation. Plus, did you see how Lockhart was blown off his feet? That’s pure raw magical power breaking past the spell’s confines.”

Draco hummed, affecting nonchalance. His eyes flicked back to Tim, who lost the battle against his smirk. When Lockhart paired them up to practice the Disarming Charm, the Malfoy heir avidly avoided him.

“Poor guy,” Blaise remarked with amusement. “What did you do to traumatize him that bad?”

Tim mimed zipping his lips shut with a wink.

They bowed and got into positions. “On the count of three!” Lockhart shouted. “One—two— three!”

Tim waited for Blaise to cast first. He ducked under the jet of purple light. Before Blaise could get through his second “ _Ex_ —”, his wand was flying into Tim’s hand.

Blaise narrowed his eyes at him. “That’s not fair,” he said sulkily, as Tim handed him back his wand. “You didn’t even use the wand movement. Or the incantation.”

“‘Pure, raw magical power’, Blaise.”

“ _Pure, raw magical power, Blaise_ ,” the other boy imitated in a high-pitched voice.

They paused to observe the other pairs. The upper years seemed to have moved past the Disarming Charm and were actually dueling. Everyone else…

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart.

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering throughout the room— the source being Ron’s broken wand. Neville and Justin Finch-Fletchley were both laying on the ground. Harry seemed to have been the victim of a _Tarantallegra_ and was dancing uncontrollably, while Draco wheezed painfully across from him. 

“I think I’d better teach you how to _block_ unfriendly spells,” Lockhart announced, when he and Snape had finally restored some measure of order to the scene. “What about a demonstration?”

“Good idea, Professor Lockhart,” Snape said with a twisted smile. “How about Malfoy and Potter?”

 _Figures_. Tim suppressed an eyeroll. _There Snape goes again, picking on Harry. You’d think a man in his thirties would be more mature._

“Excellent idea!” Lockhart exclaimed. He ushered Harry and Draco to the dais. “Now, Harry,” he said. “When Draco points his wand at you, you do _this_.”

He raised his wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops— my wand is a little overexcited—”

Snape moved closer to Draco and whispered something in his ear. Tim narrowed his eyes at them. Fortunately, he had already taught Harry a blocking charm. Although the way Draco was now smirking at Harry didn’t quite spark much confidence. Had Snape told him some spell that could penetrate a Second Year level blocking charm?

Tim racked his head for a spell like that, that was simultaneously in Draco’s capabilities. Perhaps something physical? Simple blocking spells couldn’t hold up against physical attacks. But conjuring was tricky. There were only a couple of conjuring spells that Draco had any chance of succeeding at, which meant he must be about to use—

“Go!” Lockhart shouted and Malfoy raised his wand and bellowed, “ _Serpensortia_!”

 _Of course_ , Tim thought, exasperated. Any Slytherin would know that one. They used it as a password for the Common Room probably three times a week. At the same time, the long black snake that fell heavily to the ground between the boys and raised itself, ready to strike, was everything other than harmless.

“Don’t move, Potter,” Snape said lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it…”

Surely Snape didn’t mean to drag this out longer than necessary, Tim thought with clenched teeth. The snake was obviously getting ready to strike. Perhaps Snape thought to allow it a warning bite. Tim got ready to Vanish it, jaw gritted hard enough to make it hurt. It would be hard to explain, but maybe they’d attribute it simply to Draco’s spell being too weak to sustain the conjured creature for long.

But before he could perform the _Evanesco_ , Lockhart shouted, “Allow me!” and brandished his wand.

There was a loud bang and the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the ground with a loud smack. Enraged, it slithered towards Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, hissing furiously.

There were screams as the crowd tried to clear the floor. Tim was jostled to the side and lost view of the snake.

“Calm down!” Snape barked. He didn’t have a clear shot at the snake through the jostling crowd either.

Tim finally managed to elbow past the taller students, staring aghast as the snake poised itself to strike, fangs glinting. He gathered his magic to shoot an _Evanesco_ —

“ _STOP!_ ” Harry shouted.

Of course, that wasn’t what anybody else heard. Instead, it was a series of mangled hisses that left his mouth. The entire hall, including the snake, froze in their tracks.

More inhuman hisses. The snake slowly lowered its head to the ground and slithered away from Justin Finch-Fletchley, towards Harry. Harry looked up, to aim a grin at the shell shocked Hufflepuff. Slowly, it faded, as he took in the horrified faces staring back at him.

The Great Hall broke into pandemonium. Between the cries of alarm, Tim heard Blaise mutter an empathetic, “ _Shit_.”

It didn’t need to be said twice.

#

Snape was quick to send everyone back to their Common Rooms. The students obliged eagerly, practically running from the still confused Harry.

Did he even know what he’d done? Tim cursed. Speaking to snakes… it would be foolish to jump to conclusions, but Tim had no doubt that to the Hogwarts’ population, something like this could be interpreted in only one way.

Tim and Blaise were being shepherded towards the Common Room before they could approach the Golden Trio. Tim only hoped Ron would explain everything to Harry— preferably in a non-biased way.

A wave of silver hair approached Tim through the crowded corridor. Luna stopped in her tracks, staring at him. Several people nearly stumbled into her, spitting curses and glaring her way. She seemingly didn’t notice, eyes fixed on Tim.

“Hey, Luna,” he greeted, forcing a halfway pleasant expression onto his face. “Are you—”

“Your infestation’s gotten worse,” she interrupted.

“What?”

Almost as abruptly as she’d stopped, she began walking again. “Watch out,” she said as she passed him.

Tim stared as she disappeared in the crowd. “What was that about?” Blaise asked as they fell back into step with the rest of the Slytherins.

“Beats me,” Tim muttered. “I didn’t even bump into her this time.” But he had the feeling that wasn’t what she’d meant.

“Did you know?” demanded Darius Blishwick, turning on Tim and Blaise the moment the Common Room entrance had slid shut behind them. The rest of the Slytherins— eleven people— watched them with calculating eyes. The air was charged with tension.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Blaise said with measured indifference, tilting up his chin defiantly. 

“Don’t play the fool, Zabini,” Blishwick growled. “Gallivanting with Gryffindors. The Boy Who Lived, and his possy of blood traitors and—”

“Finish that sentence,” Tim said lowly, “I _dare_ you.”

Blishwick narrowed his eyes. “I was going to say that Slytherins only hang out with people like _that_ if there’s another agenda involved. Harry Potter is a Parselmouth.”

“Merlin, Blishwick,” Blaise said. “I don’t remember asking for your psychoanalysis on our acquaintances. Don’t you have better things to do?”

Blishwick’s fists clenched, but he didn’t reach for his wand. Despite the clear anger on his face, his eyes were wary as they flicked between Blaise and Tim. “Only Slytherin’s Heir could be a Parselmouth.”

The room was silent. Nobody had said it, but from the moment those hisses had left Harry’s mouth, they’d all been thinking it. 

The silence was stretching to strained, uneasy lengths. Every single Slytherin in the room had their eyes trained on the three of them, with an intensity that could’ve drilled holes had it been physical.

In the wake of his friend’s seemingly endless stillness, Blaise spoke first. “You sound like you’re implying something,” he said carefully.

Blishwick’s eyes snapped over to him with a humorless smile. “You know, I wondered how he got you on his boat. A perfectly respectable Pureblood of good standing, and here comes some no-name Muggleborn from the dirt, and suddenly you’re thicker than thieves. It makes sense now, I suppose.” He turned back to the motionless Tim. “You’re in cahoots with Slytherin’s Heir. You’re—”

“—a muggleborn, aiding in the attack on other muggleborns?” Tim hissed. The sudden contrast to his previous passivity was almost violent. “Yeah, fucking right. Blishwick, you wouldn’t be able to connect two dots if they were an inch away from your nose. Leave the conspiracy theories to someone else. I have nothing to do with whoever’s responsible for the petrifications— ‘Slytherin’s Heir’ or whatever else they’re masquerading as, but when I find them, they’ll be sorry they even stepped foot in this castle.”

Blishwick drew back in surprise at the venom in his voice. Then, floundering, he said, “Don’t go making big exclamations like that—”

“One more thing.” Tim drew forward so they were nose to nose— or at least, with Blishwick staring down at him in confused apprehension, nose to chest. “You want to know how I get people ‘in my boat’?” he said, the air quotes audible. “If you wanna know so bad, I’ll show you.”

With that, he stomped towards the dorms. As far as damage control went, that could’ve probably gone better. But if he stayed any longer, it definitely would only get worse.

#

Tim was just dozing off at some ungodly hour in the morning, when a sharp stinging jerked him into awareness.

He was sitting up with a knife in hand before he could even recognize its source— it was his own magic, alerting him to a foreign presence within his wards.

_Hagrid’s chicken coop._

Tim scrambled to his feet, pressing a hand over the thin silver bracelet on his wrist and sending out a pulse of magic.

The bracelet was Blaise’s doing. “You’ll need a way to communicate quickly when the runes are tripped,” he’d said, handing them each a silver chain.

Tim had eagerly searched it for runes while Ron gaped at the crest of House Zabini engraved on each of them. “You’re giving us a family heirloom?” he asked.

“ _Lending_ you a family heirloom,” Blaise said with a wince. “We have enough of them to go around, and I prefer my friends alive.”

He explained how they worked. Any person with a bracelet could send out a pulse of magic that would be transmitted through the rest of the bracelets. Each of them could track which bracelet and _where_ the magic was coming from, and acted as portkeys when activated by a codeword.

It was extraordinary magic. Tim had nearly dismantled the entire thing, trying to figure out how it worked. He still didn’t understand all the runes. Would it be weird to write to Brock and ask? 

Either way, he could only be grateful to Blaise for lending them the bracelets for the time being, even if their portkey function was sadly useless within Hogwarts grounds.

Tim and Blaise met by the Common Room entrance, exchanging a short, tense look. Blaise was in his pajamas, Tim was dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants that could’ve passed as sleepwear, but hid a multitude of gadgets that decidedly did not belong in a bed, or, for that matter, anywhere else _not_ either a battlefield or a Gotham street.

They hurried towards the main entrance. It was only Tim’s extensive knowledge of the castle’s secret passageways that kept them from being caught by Filch. Or perhaps fate was smiling on them today.

The Golden Trio was waiting for them by the large wooden doors. Nobody really felt like speaking— their nerves had a stranglehold on their throats. Tim pushed the heavy door open, wincing at the loud creaking. The four of them scurried out into the cold night air, turning back briefly to glance at Blaise, silhouetted against the doorway. His expression was grim. 

“Fifteen minutes,” he said.

Tim nodded. The Golden Trio huddled beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Tim activated the Disillusionment runes on his skin and clothes.

They made their way towards Hagrid’s cottage. The ground was soft and moist, cushioning their footsteps. Goosebumps rose on Tim’s arms in the cool air.

There was a sudden loud shriek— an animal noise, panicked and quickly stifled. 

Hermione let loose some expletive that was drowned out by the sudden rushing in Tim’s ears.

_This is it. This is it. Slytherin’s Heir._

Tim burst into Hagrid’s backyard. Inside the hut, Fang was barking madly. The hooded figure had their back turned, throwing a dead rooster to the ground. They whirled around just as Tim shot a _Stupefy_ — or some wandless, incantationless approximation— at their back.

With surprising swiftness, the figure dodged the beam of red energy. They were unprepared for Tim barreling into them with a flying kick a second later. His boots hit home. The figure went sprawling backwards, their hood falling off to reveal…

… red hair. Tear filled eyes.

Ginny Weasley stared back at the four of them in horror.

“Ginny!” Ron shouted, tearing the Cloak off himself. He stumbled forward, but was held back by Tim. “Let go of me!” he cried. “That’s my sister!”

“That’s not your— that can’t be,” Tim said, staring back at the trembling, wheezing girl with no less horror.

“I can explain!” Ginny stammered between pained coughs. She was clutching her ribs where Tim had kicked her. It was quite the lucky thing he hadn’t had his steel-toed boots on.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, let me explain.”

“Something’s not right here,” Hermione said.

“What’s going on, Ginny?” Ron asked— practically pleaded. 

“He’s forcing me,” she said, face crumpling in a sob. “I don’t want to do it, I swear! He’s forcing me, I–… I–…”

“Who, Ginny? Tell us who’s forcing you!”

She sucked in a terrified breath. “Hagrid’s going to come out any moment,” she said, “we have to leave. If we get caught, he’ll know.”

“Something’s not right,” Hermione muttered again, seemingly to herself.

“Tell us who it is, Ginny,” Tim insisted.

“We can’t get caught!” she said desperately. “If he finds out you’ve seen me— please, we have to leave before Hagrid comes!”

“Come on, Ginny,” Ron said soothingly, helping the panicked girl to her feet. “It’s okay. We won’t let him hurt you. Let’s go, guys.”

“This could be a tri—” Tim began.

“This is my sister!” Ron broke him off angrily. “She’s not going to run!”

Fang’s barking was reaching wild proportions. From inside the hut, several loud thumps could be heard as Hagrid approached the door.

Ginny gave a terrified whimper, begging, “Please, let’s go.”

That decided it. They stumbled out of Hagrid’s yard, Ginny and Ron taking the lead, Harry and Hermione at their heels, Tim bringing up the rear. Ginny guided them towards the Great Lake. There were plenty of secluded little corners on the bank of the lake, that wouldn’t be visible from the castle.

“It’s four on one,” Harry said, seeing Tim fingering his wand as they came to a stop. “She won’t get away.”

“It’s not going to get to that point,” Ron insisted with a glare at his best friend. “Ginny’s going to tell us everything, right, Ginny?”

The younger girl had turned towards the lake, staring at the dark water with a troubled expression. Tim had thought it was blood on her hands in his vision, but it was actually ink staining them black. He frowned, the small detail niggling at the back of his mind like something he’d forgotten.

“Guys,” Hermione said, “this doesn’t make sense. There’s no way she could speak Parseltongue. I–… I was researching in the library… different types of snakes…”

The water was rippling. It was impossible to see into the murky depths, but on the surface, waves tore through the reflection of the night sky like fractures in a mirror.

“Ginny?” Ron was asking, not having noticed yet.

“Are you confused, Hermione?” Ginny asked, her voice unsettlingly low. “I can show you, if you want.”

“The water—” Harry started as the ripples grew larger.

“Pipes!” Hermione exclaimed. She sounded scared. “I know what it is! Close your eyes! Close your eyes! It’s—”

There was the sound of something large emerging from the water. Hermione’s voice cut off abruptly. An awful, rattling hiss reverberated through the air, grating like knife on rock.

Tim had his eyes squeezed shut. He was suddenly reminded of Medusa and her head of snakes, turning anything that looked at them to stone. 

He sent out a wave of wandless magic and felt something collide with it. Something huge. He pushed more magic into the makeshift shield, until it crackled like electricity. There was a shrieking hiss. The pressure on his shield abated suddenly.

Tim chanced opening his eyes by a crack.

And was faced by the end of Ginny’s wand. It went by too fast for him to do anything more than catch sight of her eyes. Deep, ominous red, that chilled him to the bone. Eyes that most certainly did not belong to her.

Then she hissed, “ _Obliviate_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you weren't expecting that! Blaise was right, as usual. 
> 
> Might go back and edit this later. I'm too tired right now and just wanted to get this out as soon as possible. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading and for all your support. I haven't yet gotten around to responding to the comments from last chapter, but I'll definitely get to that soon. Also, somebody once commented a theory on what was going to happen a while back, and it was so close to accurate I couldn't reply without spoiling anything... 😄 Very excited to go back and say "damn."
> 
> Unfortunately, the next chapter will take a little while, so don't wonder if I'm dead— it's exams. See you some time relatively soon, I hope 👋

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment! I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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